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'V\3 


BULLETIN 

OF  THE 

FIRST  DISTRICT  NORMAL  SCHOOL 

KIRKSVILLE,  MISSOURI 


Founded  by  Joseph  Baldwin 

as  the  North  Missouri  Normal  School,  September  2,  1867 

Adopted  as  the  First  District  Normal  School,  December  29,  1870 
under  Act  of  the  General  Assembly,  Approved  March  19,  1870 

Opend  as  the  First  District  Normal  School,  January  1,  1871 


Volume  XVI  Number  8 


AUGUST,  1916 


Publisht  Monthly  by  the 
First  District  Normal  School 


Rural  Education  Series  No.  2 


A VISION  OF  THE  HOMELAND 
A Play  of  the  Open  Country 

BY 

Oliver  C.  Perry 


Copyright,  1916,  by  Oliver  C.  Perry 

Enterd  as  second  class  mail  matter  April  29,  1915,  at  the  post  office  at  Kirksville,  Missouri, 
under  the  Act  of  Congress  of  August  24,  1912. 


A Vision  of  the  Homeland 

A PLAY  OF  THE  OPEN  COUNTRY 
by 

Oliver  C.  Perry 

in  collaboration  with  the  other  members  of  the  class  in  Advanced  English 
Composition  in  the  First  District  Normal  School,  Summer  Quarter,  1916. 


Class  Members 


Mark  O.  Alspach 
C.  Ella  Case 

Mary  Ann  Fidler 
J.  H.  Hess 


Arlie  Delta  Case 
Zerva  Catjby 

J.  Irving  Hess 

Mrs.  J.  V.  R.  Hilgert 


Maggie  Lee  Hoffman  Victor  Kirk 

Cornelia  Lloyd  H.  J.  Long 

Howard  B.  Martin  Guy  Nash 

Noel  H.  Petree  Oliver  C.  Perry 

Adah  Shaffer  Henrietta  K.  Smoot 

Lizzie  Utterback 


2 


Division  of  Rural  Education 


MARK  BURROWS 


JOHN  R.  KIRK,  President 
ROSAMOND  ROOT 

THURBA  FIDLER 


In  Cooperation  with  the 
DEPARTMENT  OF  ENGLISH 


JOHN  R.  KIRK,  President 
A.  P.  SETTLE 

WARREN  JONES  C.  M.  WISE 

IDA  A.  JEWETT  H.  S.  HOLLOPETER 

BLANCHE  F.  EMERY  ALICE  D.  MANN 


3 


FOREWORD 

“A  Vision  of  the  Homeland”  is  offered  to  the  public  as  a 
successor  to  “A  Little  Child  Shall  Lead  Them,”  published  last 
year.  It  was  produced  as  a competitive  class  exercise,  and  was 
chosen  from  among  nineteen  plays  written  by  members  of  the 
class  competing,  the  Summer  Quarter  Advanced  English  Com- 
position Class.  It  is  the  hope  of  the  author  of  the  play  and  the 
instructor  of  the  class  that  “A  Vision  of  the  Homeland”  may  do 
its  full  share  in  solving  the  problem  of  the  socialization  of  country 
life. 

Grateful  acknowledgement  is  hereby  made  to  Professor  Mark 
Burrows  for  bibliographies  and  suggestions,  to  Miss  Blanche 
Emery  for  permitting  the  use  of  a portion  of  the  Keouk  Camp 
Fire  arrangement  of  a portion  of  Longfellow’s  “Hiawatha, ” to 
Miss  Iphigenia  Burro\ys  for  the  original  Indian  music  used  with 
the  symbolic  dance  and  to  Miss  Velda  Cochran  for  the  steps  for 
her  original  dance,  Minnehaha  Blessing  the  Corn  Fields. 

C.  M.  Wise  (Instructor). 


4 


A VISION  OF  THE  HOMELAND 


\ 

A PLAY  OF  THE  OPEN  COUNTRY 

Characters 


Webster  Worth Principal  of  Hope  Consolidated  School 

Mary  Clayton College  Woman  and  Community  Worker 

Mrs.  Clayton Mother  to  Mary  Clayton 

Hiram  Stephens Farmer  and  President  of  School  Board 

Nancy  Stephens Wife  to  Hiram  Stephens 

Emmett  Stephens Hiram  Stephens’  Dissolute  Son 

Eric  Svenson Mrs.  Clayton’s  Hired  Man 

Jim  Talman Hiram  Stephens’  Hired  Man 

Sally  Peterson High  School  Girl 

Fritz  Schwartz Member  of  School  Board 


Hiawatha,  Minnehaha,  Spirit  of  the  New  World,  Mondamin,  Pilgrims,  Indians, 
Children,  “Audience.” 


A VISION  OF  THE  HOMELAND 


ACT  I. 

Setting:  Back  yard  in  the  Stephens  home.  Chicken  coop, 
grindstone,  soap  box,  etc.,  placed  at  random.  Jim  is  seated  on 
the  box  shelling  corn  into  a narrow  pan.  He  is  a young  man  of 
thirty  or  thereabout,  is  dressed  in  blue  overalls,  and  wears  a 
weeks’  growth  of  beard.  Has  touseled  red  hair. 

Enter  Eric  L.  He  is  a large,  flaxen-haired  Swede,  slow  and 
awkward. 

Eric. — Goot  tay,  Yim.  Vat  you  bane  tr-rifin’  at?  Gattin’ 
supper  for  te  bird  dog? 

Jim. — (With  a drawl)  W’y  no,  I ’uz  jist  a-pickin’  some  o’ 
the  cobs  out  o’  this  here  corn  so’s  the  chickens  wouldn’t  git  choked 
on  ’em.  (Both  laugh  boisterously.) 

Eric. — Ya,  by  yimminy,  Ay  bet  you  bane  lookin’  out  for  te 
scheekens.  You  haf  got  von  tander  hear-rt  for  tham — fr-ried. 
(They  laugh  again.) 

Jim. — Come  hep  me  pick  ’em  out,  Swede.  (Eric  hesitates. 
Looks  at  clothes,  shakes  his  head.  Jim  throws  a cob  at  him. 
Motions  him  to  come  up. ) I’ll  sic  my  bird  dawg  on  them  ice-cream 
pants  o’  yourn  if  ye  don’t.  (Eric  pushes  Jim  off  the  box  and  sits 
on  it  himself.  Jim  remains  seated  on  the  ground.  They  both 
shell  corn.) 

Jim. — (Disarranging  Eric’s  necktie)  Gorsh!  Yer  dolled  up 

all  over.  Got  a date,  Swede? 

Eric. — Vat  that  bane,  Yim? 

Jim. — I mean  are  ye  meditatin’  on  goin’  out  among  ’em? 

Eric. — Among  vat,  te  scheekens?  (Jim  laughs.  Eric  looks 
foolish.) 

Eric. — You  bane  pokin’  me  at  fon. 

Jim. — Seein’s  how  ye  wuz  all  did  up  in  yer  bib  an’  tucker,  yer 
hair  blacked  an’  yer  boots  combed;  yer  count’nance  scraped  an’ 
so  on  an’  so  forth,  I ’lowed  ye  might  be  goin’  out  among  the  gentle 
flock  fer  a evenin’s  enjyment. 

Eric. — Ya,  ya,  Ay  bane  goin’  to  te  pr-ractice  for  the  cor-rn 
show. 

Jim. — (Slapping  his  leg)  By  heck!  Sand  my  terbaccer! 
Ef  I wasn’t  about  to  forgit  that  ’ere  corn  show!  I wouldn’t  miss 
that  fer  a mate  to  my  bird  dawg,  an’  he’s  the  best  bird  dawg  in 


6 


North  Missouri,  by  heck.  Gunna  have  it  in  two  months,  aint 
they,  Swede? 

Eric. — (Nods.) 

Jim. — Gals  ’at’s  a-learnin’  how  to  cook  water  ’thout  burn- 
in’  it  goin’  to  sling  out  the  hash  down  in  the  basement.  They’s 
a-goin’  to  be  a hawg-killin’ time  shore’s  you’re  a foot  high!  Kids 
all  speak  pieces,  music  by  the  new  orchestry,  reg’lar  theayter 
show  ’bout  corn,  ’er  now — that’s  what  Sally’s  been  a-tellin’  me. 
She  talks  about  it  all  the  time. 

Eric. — You  bane  goin’  to  the  pr-ractice  tonight,  Yim? 

Jim. — Well,  I dunno,  I ain’t  missed  drivin’  down  to  the  dee-pot 
to  see  number  forty  in  on  Saturday  night  fer  seven  years,  but 
they’s  a-goin’  to  be  some  extry’s  onto  that  ’ere  practicin’  tonight. 

Eric. — What  tey  bane? 

Jim.— W’y,  the  directors  is  some  uv  ’em  a-goin’  in  to  try  to 
bust  ’er  up.  Ole  man’ll  be  there  with  his  bristles  stickin’  up 
stiffer’n  a razor-back  hawg  chasin’  a nigger.  Say,  Swede,  they 
aint  much  more  o’  this  here  corn  to  shell.  You  jist  finish  it,  will 
you,  an’  I’ll  slick  up  an’  go  to  that  doin’s.  If  my  bird  dawg 
don’t  ast  to  go,  maybe  I’ll  take  Sally  along.  (Exit  Jim.) 

Eric. — Yimminy  now,  Yames  bane- — vat  you  call  heem? — 
oxcitemented.  Ay  bane  want  Sally  go  mit  me.  (Shells  rapidly. 
Enter  Sally  R.  She  is  a plump,  rosy-cheeked  damsel  of 
about  seventeen.  Wears  a large  apron,  which  partly  conceals 
an  attractive  dress.  Large  ribbon  bow  on  hair.  She  is  mani- 
festly just  a bit  of  a coquette.) 

Sally. — Why  hello!  You  here,  Eric?  I didn’t  expect  to  see 
you.  I’m  helping  Mrs.  Stephens  today,  you  know.  , Jim  must 
have  worked  you.  Aint  you  lonesome  shellin’  corn  all  by  your- 
self? 

Eric. — Oh,  Ay  bane  leetle  lonesome.  Mrs.  Clayton  told  me 
to  quit  work  early  today  so  Ay  bane  gat  early  to  te  school.  Ay 
yust  come  by  to  see  Yim.  Yim  yust  leaf.  He  get  r-ready  to  go 
to  te  pr-ractice.  Yim  bane  fonny.  He  gat  oxcitement  about 
vat  he  call  it?  Hog  butcherin’  time.  (Sally  laughs,  a dangerous 
little  rippling  laugh,  and  Eric’s  expression  shows  that  it  strikes 
a vulnerable  spot.) 

Sally. — Are  you  not  going  to  the  rehearsal,  Eric?  You  can’t 
see  us  practice,  but  you  can  go  to  the  club  meeting.  I’m  goin’  to 
be  the  “Spirit  of  the  New  World”  in  the  pageant,  and  wear 
flowing  robes  and  look — oh,  ever  so  spooky. 


7 


Eric. — I tank  I bane  go. 

Sally. — I thought  you  might  be,  seeing  you  are  dressed  up. 
(As  they  shell  corn  over  the  narrow  pan  their  hands  touch.  Eric 
drops  his  ear  of  corn,  looks  up  at  the  sky  and  twirls  his  thumbs.) 

Eric. — Dis  bane  a pooty  efenin\ 

Sally. — Very  lovely,  indeed,  Eric.  I’m  glad  that  we  have 
so  many  things  to  go  to  these  fine  nights.  Used  to  be  we  didn’t 
have  anything  to  go  to,  and  when  we  did  go  we  didn’t  know 
how  to  have  a good  time.  It  was  always  just  play  some  silly  old 
game  or  sit  around  and  giggle.  Now  we  have  lots  of  really  useful 
things  going  on,  and  it’s  lots  more  fun  when  you  are  doing  things 
that  really  count.  (During  this  speech  Eric  has  been  more  deeply 
interested  in  the  speaker  than  in  her  words.  There  is  a pause  in 
the  conversation.  While  Sally  is  busy  shelling  corn,  Eric  slyly 
touches  her  hair  with  his  finger-tips.  Puts  fingers  to  his  lips.) 

Eric. — How  you  bane  goin’  tonight,  Sally? 

Sally. — (Archly)  W’y,  I’ll  go  the  road  I guess.  It’s  a little 
nearer  thru  the  field,  but  the  grass  gets  so  wet,  you  know. 

Eric. — (Much  agitated)  I mean — (Aside)  vat  do  I mean? 
Vas  you  valk? 

Sally. — Yes,  and  I must  go  home  and  get  ready,-  too.  (Rises 
to  go.) 

Eric. — (Now  quite  nervous,  but  making  a heroic  effort  to 
appear  calm)  Eet’s  a long  r-road  for  you  to  valk,  Sally.  You 
gat  tired.  You  moost  vor-rk  in  te  pr-ractice  ven  you  gat  there. 
I don’t  like  you  to  bane  valkin’. 

Sally. — Oh,  I’m  used  to  walking,  Eric.  I walk  ’most  every- 
where I go. 

Eric.— Sally,— Sally. 

Sally. — Well,  Eric? 

Eric. — Ay  haf  got  moost  go  by  meinself.  Ay  trife  ol’  Yack. 
Yack  bane  shtout.  He  bane  too  shtout  to  pull  only  von  single 
man.  He  maybe  will  r-run  away. 

Sally. — Why  don’t  you  get  Jim  to  help  you  hold  him? 

Eric. — Er — veil — Ay  tinks  Yim  dake — somepody  else  in  hees 
buggy. 

Sally — Oh!  Well,  maybe  Jane  Murfree  will  help  you  hold 
Jack  down. 

Eric. — Sally, — Sally.  Sally.  Vill — er — a — hem — How  you 

like  my  new  buggy? 

Sally. — Oh,  I think  it’s  just  dandy. 


8 


Eric. — Oh,  it  bane — so  e-easy.  You  ought  see  how  e-easy 
it  bane.  Sally — Sally.  Come  ride  in  it  mit  me  to  te  practice. 

Sally. — Why,  thank  you,  Eric.  If  you  think  I’ll  do  as  well 
as  Jane,  I’ll  be  glad  to  go.  (Enter  Jim  and  Mr.  Stephens.) 

Eric. — (Rapturously)  Oh,  you  bane  vill  go?  Ay  vas  happy. 
I — I— (Discovers  Jim  and  Mr.  Stephens.  Stands  dumfounded.) 

MY  Stephens. — Hello,  here,  Eric,  you  seem  to  have  help. 
Can  Sally  shell  corn  purty  good? 

Eric.  Ya,  splandid.  (Exeunt  Sally  and  Eric.) 

Mr.  Stephens. — I gar,  Jim,  as  a fair-minded  man,  I’d  say  the 
Swede  shelt  your  corn  for  the  right  chicken,  eh? 

Jim. — Durn  him.  I thought  I’d  worked  him.  Heck!  What 
do  I care?  I’ve  got  the  best  bird  dawg  in  North  Missouri.  I’ll 
take  him.  (Enter  Mrs.  Stephens.  She  is  a large,  comely 
woman  of  forty.  Her  face  is  pleasant  and  wholesome.) 

Mrs.  Stephens. — Did  you  say  you  was  goin’  over  to  the  school 
this  evenin’,  Hi? 

Mr.  Stephens. — Yes,  I gar,  I am.  As  president  of  this  here 
school  board  an’  deacon  in  the  church  it’s  my  dooty  to  look  after 
the  morals  o’  this  here  neighborhood.  Looks  to  me  like  it’s  a- 
goin’  too  fur  when  a teacher  turns  his  scholars  loose  to  run  wild 
over  the  deestrict  ’stid  o’  learnin’  their  books,  an’  then  caps  it 
all  off  by  havin’  ’em  up  there  every  Saturday  night  a-losin’  sleep 
learnin’  one  o’  them  theayter  plays.  We  don’t  want  the  children 
o’  this  deestrict  turned  into  play  actors. 

Mrs.  Stephens. — I think  it’ll  be  nice,  Hi.  The  children  are 
so  interested. 

Mr.  Stephens. — I tell  ye,  Nancy,  I aint  a-goin’  to  have  it! 
Today  when  I wus  down  in  the  pastur  a-saltin’  my  cattle  that 
little  upstart,  Johnny  Miles,  ’uz  there  a-writin’  somethin’  down  in 
a little  book.  I ast  him  what  he  wuz  a-doin’  an’  he  ’lowed  the 
class  in  agricultoor  was  a-makin’  a survey  of  the  cattle  in  the 
consolidated  deestrict.  I says,  s’l,  “ You’d  better  be  down  there 
at  that  ere  new-fangled  school  a-learnin’  yer  books.  It’s  a-costin’ 
us  farmers  a sight  o’  money  to  have  kids  a-gallivantin’  ’round 
over  the  country  after  cattle  when  they  ort  to  be  a-studyin’.  ” 
Yes!  (Sarcastically)  It  wuz,  “Consolidated  Schools,”  an’  “Give 
the  farm  boy  an’  girl  a chanct,  ” an’  all  sich  tommy  rot,  an’  now 
jist  see  what’s  come  uv  it! 

Mrs.  Stephens. — But  Hi,  you  haven’t  give  this  set  of  teachers 


time  yet.  The  young  ’uns  all  like  to  go,  an’  they’re  learnin’  lots 
of  things. 

Mr.  Stephens. — I gar,  Nancy,  what  air  they  a-learnin’?  I 
ast  that  Peterson  girl  t’other  day  if  she  knowed  what  the  capital 
of  Constantinople  was,  an’  she  jist  sorter  giggled  an’  looked  like 
a fool.  (Jim  turns  his  back  and  suppresses  a snort  by  coughing 
violently.)  There  they’re  a-learnin’  her  a lot  o’  cookin’  an’ 
sewin’  an’  sich  stuff  as  she  ort  to  learn  at  home  an’  she  don’t  know 
beans  about  her  joggerfy.  I alius  knowed  if  that  passel  o’  crazy 
fools  got  their  way  they’d  make  a gol-blamed  mess  of  it. 

Mrs.  Stephens. — But  Hi,  Sally  has  improved  wonderful  since 
she  started  to  school.  She’s  a-gettin’  to  be  a first-rate  cook,  an’ 
she  does  take  so  much  pride  in  her  work.  You  know  she  used  to 
be  slovenly  about  her  housekeepin’  an’  not  interested  in  anything 
but  jist  flirtin’  with  the  boys.  What  the  school’s  already  done 
fer  her’s  worth  a whole  lot.  She  can  sure  make  good  bread,  can’t 
she  Jim? 

Jim. — Yes’m,  that  she  kin. 

Mr.  Stephens. — I gar,  Nancy,  they  aint  no  use  fer  you  to 
stick  up  fer  a passel  o’  tom-foolery.  Anybody  ’ats’  fair-minded  kin 
see  they  aint  nothin’  to  it.  That  ’ere  Sally  aint  forgot  how  to 
flirt.  She’s  got  a little  sharper  about  it,  that’s  all.  Jim!  (Jim 
has  started  to  leave.)  If  you’re  a-goin’  over  by  Schwartz’s,  I 
wish  you’d  holler  Fritz  out  an’  ask  him  to  drop  in  a minute  as  he 
goes  by.  I want  to  see  him. 

Jim. — All  right,  Mr.  Stephens.  I’m  a-goin’  right  by,  an’  I’ll 
tell  him.  Yeah,  I’ll  tell  him.  (Exit  Jim  L.) 

Mr.  Stephens. — They  can  run  a steam  roller  over  me  onct 
mebby,  but  I gar,  they  can’t  keep  a self-made  man  down.  They’s 
a-goin’  to  be  a change  in  this  here  school  system.  (Enter  Emmett 
Stephens.  He  is  a young  man  of  thirty,  wears  a slight  moustache 
and  walks  with  a swagger.  Has  a match  stuck  over  one  ear  and 
wears  a broad-brimmed  felt  hat  tilted  at  a steep  angle  over  the 
other  ear.) 

Emmett. — Say,  Dad,  looks  to  me  like  it’s  about  time  you 
fellers  was  a-settin’  on  that  Worth.  I ‘dropped  in  on  him  today, 
an’  I’ll  be  gol-blest  if  he  wuzn’t  a-learnin’  them  kids  how  to  spark! 
Yes-siree!  Showin’  ’em  how  to  take  a lady  in  to  dinner  an’  all 
sich  fol-de-rol.  I ast  him  what  kind  of  a course  that  stuff  might 
come  under,  an’  he  lowed  they  wus  a-gettin’  in  trainin’  fer  a pag- 
eant— whatever  that  is. 


10 


Mr.  Stephens. — I’ll  be  everlastin’ly  chawed  by  the  hawgs  ef 
I’m  a-goin’  to  stand  fer  no  sich  doin’s. 

Emmett. — He  had  the  house  all  littered  up  with  corn  an’ 
great  bundles  o’  corn-stalks,  roots  an’  all,  scattered  around.  Said 
they  wuz  a-studyin’  corn.  Oh,  it’s  some  high  school.  They 
don’t  learn  books.  They  learn  corn  an’  bugs  an’  cows  an’  cookin’ 
an’  sewin’ — and  sparkin’.  Them  kids  actually  likes  to  go.  It’s 
jist  fun  fer  ’em.  “Teachin’  in  terms  o’  rural  life,  ” is  his  hifalutin’ 
name  fer  what  he’s  a-doin’.  Can’t  you  directors  stop  him  a- 
wastin’  the  deestrict  money? 

Mr.  Stephens. — You  jist  wait,  Emmett.  I aint  figgered  out 
jist  how  we’re  a-goin’  to  do  it,  but  that  smart-alec’s  a-goin’  to 
git  out  o’  here  quicker’n  a Betsy-bug  out  uv  a bake-oven  when 
we  do  git  at  him  right.  I’ve  had  enough,  an’  when  Hi  Stephens 
gits  enough,  I gar,  he  gits  shet  o’  what  he’s  got  enough  of. 

Mrs.  Stephens. — Well,  Hi,  you’d  better  go  slow  this  time  or 
you’ll  get  shet  of  what’s  a-savin’  this  here  neighborhood  from  gossip 
an’  dissatisfaction  among  the  young  people.  Webster  Worth’s 
a gentleman,  an’  he’s  stood  more  from  you  folks  he’s  a-workin’  his 
life  out  to  help,  than  any  other  livin’  man  would  stand. 

Mr.  Stephens. — Oh,  shucks!  Nancy,  I gar,  I thought  you 
did  have  a little  sense.  (Exit  Mrs.  Stephens.) 

Emmett. — Phew!  The  little  step-mother’s  kinda  spunky 
today.  Likes  the  dear  little  bug-huntin’  perfessor,  don’t  she? 

Mr.  Stephens. — Oh,  don’t  pay  no  ’tention  to  her.  Nancy’s 
a good  woman,  but  she’s  terrible  set  in  her  ways.  I never  could 
get  her  to  see  things  fair  like  I do.  She’s  jist  like  all  the  women, 
likes  anybody  that’ll  blarney  her  up. 

Emmett. — Oh,  our  little  toy  professor’s  a ladies’  man  all 
right  enough.  Mary  Clayton  can’t  see  nothin’  but  his  soft  ways 
either.  It’s  “Mr.  Worth”  here  an’  “Mr.  Worth”  there.  I’m  sick 
of  hearin’  that  name. 

Mr.  Stephens. — Emmett,  see  here.  (Confidentially)  Ef 
you  can’t  beat  that  little  jack-legged  school  teacher  that  aint  got 
anything  but  the  clothes  he  wears  on  his  back  I’m  ashamed  to 
call  you  a son  of  Hiram  Stephens.  You  that’s  got  a thousan’ 
acres  o’  the  best  land  in  this  county  an’  not  a red  cent  agin’  it 
a-comin’  to  you  when  yer  ol’  dad’s  done  with  it,  say  nothin’  about 
personal  prop’ty.  Mary  Clayton’s  a mighty  good  match  fer  ye, 
too,  if  she  is  kinder  daffy  over  this  community  church  idee,  an’ 
sech  like  stuff.  She’s  been  off  to  college  an’  got  a lot  o’  that  ’ere 


11 


foolishness  crammed  into  her  head;  but  she’ll  git  over  it,  I gar, 
she’ll  git  over  it.  Her  ol’  dad  wuz  a mighty  good  man  an’  he  left 
her  a right  nice  piece  o’  land  jinin’  our  farm. 

Emmett. — Well,  Dad,  I jist  tell  you,  between  you  an’  me  an’ 
the  gate-post,  as  Jim  alius  says,  they  aint  nothin’  a-doin’  fer  me 
unless  that  rapscallion  is  rousted  out  o’  here,  somehow.  She’s 
so  everlastin’ly  wrapped  up  in  his  confounded  consolidated  school 
she  can’t  pay  no  ’tention  to  a plain,  hard-workin’  farmer. 

Mr.  Stephens. — Well  now — I gar,  Emmett,  I don’t  know  so 
much  about  that  hard-workin’  business.  You  don’t  hurt  yourself 
very  much  in  my  opinion. 

Emmett. — Say,  Dad,  couldn’t  ye  git  a petition  up  askin’  him 
to  quit.  I’ve  been  a-tellin’  about  this  here  sparkin’  business,  an’ — 
a few  other  things  I know,  an’ — you  know  how  ol’  man  Peterson 
wuz  took  in  by  the  new-fangled  school.  Well,  that  kinda  soured 
him  on  it. 

Mr.  Stephens. — I don’t  jist  see  how  to  work  that  ’ere  petition 
business,  Emmett. 

Emmett. — Well,  never  mind.  I’ve  got  some  idees  o’  my  own. 
(Aside)  That  ol’  notary’s  seal  I found  when  the  courthouse 
burnt  last  fall  is  good  fer  somethin’.  (Enter  Mr.  Schwartz.  He 
is  a stout,  middle-aged  German  farmer.  Wears  heavy  beard.) 

Mr.  Schwartz. — Goot  efenin’  Hiram,  Goot  efenin’  Emmett. 


(Mr.  Schwartz  turns  a box 


on  end  and  sits  on  it.) 

Mr.  Stephens. — How’s  your  folks,  Fritz? 

Mr.  Schwartz. — Oh,  tey  vas  pooty  goot.  Tey  vas  vor-rkin’ 
unt  talkin’  all  der  dhime  apoud  der  cor-rn  show.  Tern  tykes  of 
mine  talk  apoud  noddings  but  cor-rn  chudgin’  unt  cor-rn  cultiva- 
tion unt  cor-rn  testin’  unt  cor-rn — vot  dhey  call  eet? — pageant. 
From  night  do  mornings  I vas  hearin’  aboud  dot  cor-rn. 

Mr.  Stephens. — Say!  I gar,  aint  it  a sight? 

Mr.  Schwartz. — Ven  I goes  to  school  back  in  te  old  country 
ve  schdudy  leetle  alchebra,  leetle  heestory,  leeterature  unt  der  like. 
Now  tey  learn  here,  cor-rn,  unt  cows,  unt  pugs,  unt  soil  unt 
cookin’ — ach,  but  Mein  Katrina  can  cook  dho!  Unt  dhey  learn 
crop  r-rotation  unt  far-rm  management  unt,  unt, — 

Mr.  Stephens. — Sparkin’,  I gar!  Sparkin’! 

Mr.  Schwartz.— Ya,  schpar-rkin’.  Vat  ve  vill  done,  Meester 


12 


SchdepKens?  Tey  schust  make  farmers  mit  our  schiltren. 
Tey  vill  been  no  petter  as  ve  vas. 

Mr.  Stephens. — I gar,  ye  don’t  have  to  go  to  school  to  learn 
all  them  things.  I aint  got  no  book  learnin’,  but  I’ve  dug  a right 
good  little  livin’  out  o’  the  sile.  I’m  a self-made  man.  Ray’s 
ol’  third  part  ’rethmetic’s  about  all  a feller  needs  t’  know  to  run  a 
farm. 

Mr.  Schwartz. — Yell,  te  poys  unt  girls  vas  like  it. 

Mr.  Stephens. — Fritz,  we’ve  got  to  git  rid  o’  that  passel  o’ 
teachers  an’  that  ’ere  high  school.  W’y  my  taxes  is  a-goin’  to 
take  the  hum  forty  yit. 

Mr.  Schwartz. — Ach,  but  tern  younkersoff  mine  vouldt  been 
so  mat  as  vas  nefer.  Tey  vas  all  dhake  some  schdock  in  ter  school. 
Mein  Hans  vas  nefer  pefore  like  school,  but  now  he  vant  to  go 
tay  unt  night. 

Mr.  Stephens. — That’s  jist  the  trouble.  They  like  to  go! 
Ef  they  had  to  learn  their  joggerfy  an’  spellers  an’  ’rethmetics  it 
wouldn’t  be  so  much  fun. 

Mr.  Schwartz. — Veil,  dat  may  been  so,  Hiram,  but  mein 
younkers  vas  petter  off.  Mein  poys  no  more  get  in  meeschief 
alreaty. 

Emmett. — (Who  during  this  conversation  has  been  plotting 
quietly.)  They  didn’t  get  your  boys  into  that  little  scrape  then, 
Fritz? 

Mr.  Schwartz. — Vat  scrape  you  mean.  I don’t  vas  know 
about  some  scrapes. 

Emmett. — You  don’t  know  about  it?  I’m  surprised.  I don’t 
want  to  carry  tales,  but — well,  you  don’t  want  your  boys  to  learn 
to  gamble,  or  to  learn  to — but  there,  I must  not  tell  any  tales. 
It  may  not  be  true,  but  I believe  I’d  investigate  if  I wuz  you.  I 
wouldn’t  blame  Worth  too  much,  though.  He’s  a fine  young 
chap,  but — oh,  well,  you  know  us  young  fellows  have  to  sow  a few 
wild  oats  once  in  a while,  and  Worth  talks  a bit  too  freely  when 
the — er — wine  goes  round,  you  know. 

Mr.  Schwartz. — (Striking  the  box  on  which  he  sits  a resound- 
ing blow.)  Py  himmel!  if  he  vas  like  dat,  mein  younkers  go  no 
more! 

Emmett. — There  now,  I have  thoughtlessly  give  his  little 
secret  away.  It’s  too  bad.  Don’t  blame  the  young  fellow  too 
much.  You’ve  maybe  had  your  little  fling  and  know  how  it  goes. 
Good  fellowship,  you  know,  and  that  sort  of  thing. 


13 


Mr.  Schwartz. — I vas  no  boozer,  shust  pecause  I vas*  a Cher- 
man.  My  poys  vill  not  learn  to  be  von,  too.  (Enter  Webster 
Worth  and  Mary  Clayton.  Worth  is  a tall,  athletic,  young  man  of 
twenty-five,  tastefully  dressed.  He  has  cordial  manners  and  a 
frank,  open  countenance.  Mary  is  a young  woman  of  queenly 
bearing,  very  quiet  but  not  reserved,  cultured  but  not  snobbish.) 

Mr.  Worth. — Good  evening,  friends. 

£2£X  ■«* 

Emmett. — Why,  how  do  you  do,  my  dear  Professor?  And 
Miss  Mary!  This  is  a very  pleasant  surprise,  indeed.  Allow  me 
to  bring  you  some  chairs. 

Webster. — Do  not  go  to  so  much  trouble,  Mr.  Stephens.  We 
were  only  passing. 

Mary. — No,  we  are  in  a desperate  hurry.  I see  Mrs.  Stephens 
coming  now.  (Enter  Mrs.  Stephens.) 

Mrs.  Stephens. — How  do  you  do,  Mary?  How  are'  you,  Mr. 
Worth?  Won't  you  come  up  to  the  house? 

Webster. — Thank  you,  Mrs.  Stephens,  but  we  must  hurry  on 
to  the  rehearsal  presently. 

Mary. — We  should  like  to  borrow  your  ice-cream  freezer 
tonight,  Mrs.  Stephens.  Ours  is  broken.  We  are  planning  a 
little  surprise  for  the  boys  and  girls  after  the  rehearsal. 

Mrs.  Stephens. — Why  yes,  I'll  get  it  ready  and  the  men  can 
carry  it  to  the  buggy.  (Exit  Mrs.  Stephens,  followed  by  Mary.) 

Emmett. — Well,  Professor,  the  old  adage,  you  know:  Speak 
about — ah — angels  and  they  will  appear.  We  were  just  speaking 
of  you  when  you  came  up. 

Webster. — Indeed?  Shall  we  be  favored  by  your  presence 
tonight?  Club  meeting  before  the  rehearsal,  you  know. 

Emmett. — (Winking  at  Mr.  Schwartz)  Indeed,  Professor, 
after  the — er — little  affair  a few  nights  ago — no  need  for  details, 
you  will  agree — I shall  be  better  at  home  with  my  pipe  and  a 
mug  of — shall  we  say  cider?  Sweet  cider.  Besides,  I am  not  so 
deeply  interested  in  teachin'  various  amusements  (Winking 
again  at  Schwartz,  who  is  rapidly  growing  suspicious)  to  the 
risin'  generation. 

Mr.  Stephens. — Young  man,  I'll  be  there,  an'  the  other  mem- 
bers o'  the  school  board. 

Webster. — We  shall  all  be  very  much  pleased  to  have  you 
come;  and  I wanted  to  ask,  Mr.  Stephens,  if  you  will  not  consent 


14 


on  the  night  of  the  corn  show  to  sit  on  the  rostrum  and  award  the 
premiums  when  the  corn  is  judged. 

Mr.  Stephens. — No,  I gar!  I aint  a-goin’  to  give  out  no  prizes! 
I’m  sick  an’  tired  an’  the  other  directors  is  sick  an’  tired  of  this 
here  infernal  nonsense.  We  want  book-learnin’  at  that  ’ere  school 
an’  not  so  much  foolishness.  I’m  a blunt,  plain  speakin’  man,  an’ 
I’m  a-sayin’  this  to  yer  face:  learnin’  boys  an’  girls  to  spark — an’ 
other  things  worse  from  all  accounts — an’  wastin’  their  time  with 
a passel  o’  nonsense  aint  what  you  teachers  is  hired  fer.  You 
can  meet  with  the  board  tonight  an’  speak  fer  yourself.  (Enter 
Sally,  hurriedly.  Approaches  Stephens  and  speaks  brightly.) 

Sally. — Oh,  Mr.  Stephens.  Eric  wants  to  know  won’t  you 
lend  us  your  lap-robe?  The  roads  are  so  dusty  you  know,  and 
old  Jack — - 

Mr.  Stephens. — You  know  you  can  have  it.  G’  long  an’  git. 
(To  Webster)  You  heard  what  I said.  (Exit  Sally  L.) 

Webster. — (Calmly)  I am  very  sorry  that  you  have  misunder- 
stood our  work.  I am  sure  that,  altho  it  has  many  imperfections, 
it  is  better  than  you  think.  You  will  admit  that  we  have  young 
people  in  the  high  school  who  had  little  interest  in  anything  whole- 
some before.  (Enter  Mrs.  Stephens  and  Mary.) 

Mr.  Stephens. — I’m  a fair-minded  man  an’  I aint  admittin’ 
nothin’  you (Enter  Eric  It.) 

Eric. — Oh,  Mr.  Stephens,  did  Sally  got  te  lap-rogue?  01’ 
Yack  keeck  oop  te  dust  so  as  vas  nefer. 

Mr.  Stephens. — Yes,  I gar!  Now  “dust”  out  o’  here  and 
“Yack”  to  yer  derned  doin’s.  (Exit  Eric.) 

Mr.  Stephens. — I’ve  said  enough,  I gar!  Unless  you  change 
yer  ways  you’ll  be  a-lookin’  around  fer  a new  job  an’  that  purty 
quick. 

End  of  Act.  I. 


15 


ACT  II.  SCENE  I. 


Setting:  Living  room  in  the  Clayton  home.  The  room  is 
simply  and  tastefully  furnished.  A few  well-chosen  pictures  on 
the  wall,  magazines  on  the  table,  books  on  shelf.  Mrs.  Clayton 
is  seated  at  right  of  stage,  sewing.  Mary  is  writing  at  table  near 
center.  Mrs.  Clayton  is  an  aged  woman,  but  not  infirm.  She 
has  a crown  of  beautiful  white  hair  and  a face  lovely  in  spite  of 
wrinkles.  She  speaks  in  a firm,  sweet  voice. 

Mrs.  Clayton. — Mary. 

Mary. — Yes,  Mother. 

Mrs.  Clayton. — I don’t  want  to  scold,  daughter,  but  I feel 
that  you  are  working  yourself  to  death.  With  your  Campfire 
girls,  your  vigorous  campaign  for  the  establishment  of  a com- 
munity church,  your  work  at  the  school  designing  the  landscape 
gardening,  you  are  simply  overtaxed.  You  ate  no  breakfast  this 
morning  and  I don’t  believe  you  slept  well  last  night.  Don’t 
you  think  you  had  better  recuperate  a bit?  Go  and  visit  your 
cousin  Amy  in  Kansas  City  a week. 

Mary.— I do  not  think  I could  leave  the  work  just  now,  Mother. 
It  isn’t  my  work  that  hurts.  I love  the  work.  Could  not  be 
happy  without  it.  My  dreams  drive  me  to  it.  Oh,  it  seems  too 
bad,  now  that  we  have  a fine  new  high  school  with  a corps  of 
thoroly  competent  teachers,  and  an  abundance  of  the  most  up- 
to-date  equipment — it  seems  too  bad  not  to  go  further.  I must 
work  for  these  boys  and  girls — these  neighbors  of  ours 

Mrs.  Clayton. — Yes,  dear,  too  bad,*  indeed. 

Mary. — And,  Mother,  it  means  more  than  that.  It  means 
better  conditions  and  happier  homes  in  many  rural  communities 
if  we  can  only  lead  the  way.  I have  a vision  of  a great  church, 
reaching  out  into  every  home,  bringing  to  every  home  a richer, 
deeper,  fuller  life.  A church  not  hampered  by  petty  differences, 
but  moving  all  in  harmony,  meeting  all  needs  of  the  people.  A 
vision  of  beautiful  homes  with  every  modern  convenience,  of  good 
roads,  beautified  by  trees,  of  cultured  people,  thoroly  efficient, 
saving  their  soil,  redeeming  the  waste  places  and  finding  in  the 
science  of  farming  an  interest  that  will  give  the  joy  that  any  great 
scientist  has  in  his  work.  Thru  this  redirected  church  working 
hand  in  hand  with  a redirected  school  would  my  dreams  come 
true.  That’s  my  vision  of  our  homeland,  mother. 


16 


Mrs.  Clayton. — You  must  wait  patiently,  my  dear.  You 
cannot  bring  about  such  sweeping  reforms  in  a year — perhaps  not 
in  a lifetime. 

Mary. — It  is  not  that  I cannot  wait,  dearest  mother.  But 
it’s  so  hard  to  be  misunderstood.  People  whom  I have  known  all 
my  life  barely  speak  to  me.  Even  scandalous  stories  have  been 
told  to  injure  my  good  name. 

Mrs.  Clayton. — Yes,  Mary,  I know.  Eve  been  pained,  too, 
but  no  one  ever  unselfishly  devoted  his  life  to  the  cause  of  his 
neighbors  without  being  misunderstood  and  opposed.*  You  have 
friends  yet,  my  child. 

Mary. — Yes,  I have  loyal  friends.  I believe  my  Campfire 
girls  would  die  for  the  cause.  They  are  as  fanatic  as  I am,  even 
where  their  parents  are  bitterly  opposed.  It  is  some  consola- 
tion to  feel  that  those  girls  will  never  be  mere  gossips.  I will 
not  give  up.  People  will  not  always  scoff. 

Mrs.  Clayton. — I only  wish  it  were  possible  for  you  to  do 
your  work  without  the  expenditure  of  so  much  nerve  force;  but 
yours  is  the  spirit  of  the  reformer, — restless,  daring,  never  ac- 
knowledging defeat.  Somehow  I feel  that  you — that  we  will  win. 

Mary. — Oh,  I hope  you  are  right. 

Mrs.  Clayton. — It  is  true  the  sky  has  never  been  darker. 
There  is  murmuring  against  the  consolidated  school,  and  the 
appeal  of  that  shallow  itinerant  evangelist  last  spring  to  blind 
prejudice  and  superstition  has  done  untold  injury  to  your  church 
plans.  But  there  is  no  organized  opposition  and  certainly  no 
leadership  to  match  yours  and  Webster’s. 

Mary. — I wish  I could  possess  your  calm  hopefulness,  mother. 
I’ve  been  pretty  blue  over  prospects,  recently.  It  is  true  as  you 
say,  that  the  opposition  to  the  school  is  only  murmuring  complaint ; 
but  I’m  afraid  there  is  beginning  to  develop  a rather  definite  plan 
of  some  sort. 

Mrs.  Clayton. — Do  you  think  so? 

Mary. — You  know  the  school  board  are  having  meetings 
almost  every  night.  They  have  tried  to  stop  the  corn  festival 
the  school  is  planning  for  the  last  of  November  by  an  injunction. 
Webster’s  lawyer  assures  him  that  they  will  fail  in  that,  however. 
Mother,  if  the  school  should  fail,  we’d  be  back  in  a hopeless  state 
of  decay  with  no  prospect  of  ever  developing  a socialized  com,- 
munity  life.  What  a tragedy  it  would  be!  If  the  school  fails 


17 


we  can  never  hope  to  win  the  community  church.  It  could  ac- 
complish little  without  the  influence  of  the  school,  anyway. 

Mrs.  Clayton. — It  is  too  bad  last  year — the  first  year  of  the 
school — was  a failure.  If  Webster  could  only  have  had  the  posi- 
tion then  he  might  now  be  able  to  devote  all  his  energies  to  his 
work  instead  of  being  under  the  necessity  of  fighting  for  the  very 
life  of  the  school. 

y Mary. — Yes,  there  is  largely  where  the  trouble  lies.  Mr. 
Fairhaven  was  so  conservative.  He  was  a good  man,  personally, 
but  out  of  touch  with  modern  ideals  of  education.  (Door  bell 
rings.  Mary  goes  to  door  C.  Enter  Webster  Worth.) 

Webster. — Good  evening,  Mary.  Good  evening,  Mrs.  Clayton. 
Fm  in  trouble,  and  I’ve  come  to  hold  a council  of  war  with  you. 

Mary. — I hope  it  isn’t  anything  serious,  Webster. 

Webster. — Indeed,  I’m  afraid  it’s  likely  to  prove  very 
serious.  Mr.  Fritz  Schwartz,  the  only  member  of  the  board  who 
has  not  been  actively  opposed  to  our  methods,  has  removed  his 
Hans  and  Katrina  from  school  with  the  charge  that  I am  teaching 
his  boy  gambling  and  that  my  association  is  likely  to  contaminate 
their  morals. 

Mary. — How  absurd! 

Webster. — It  seems  that  a story  is  going  the  rounds — with 
great  cumulative  properties,  doubling  with  every  repetition,  to  the 
effect  that  I have  been  on  a drinking  bout  with  Emmett  Stephens. 
The  fact  that  I indiscreetly  went  to  town  with  him  last  Saturday 
and  brought  him  home  dead  drunk  lends  some  color  to  the  story. 
It  seems  to  be  further  strengthened  by  certain  sinister  hints  that 
young  man  is  insinuating  into  the  minds  of  those  who  are  ready  to 
believe  any  adverse  report  concerning  me. 

Mrs.  Clayton. — That  is  unfortunate,  but  it  won’t  injure  you 
permanently,  Mr.  Worth.  When  the  truth  is  known,  this  hideous 
falsehood  will  fall  with  crushing  force  upon  the  heads  of  those  who 
perpetrated  it.  So  long  as  their  attack  is  on  a personal  basis  in- 
stead of  the  efficiency  of  your  work,  there  really  isn’t  much  to 

fear.  Your  character  can  stand  the  test. 

/ 

Webster. — Thank  you,  Mrs.  Clayton.  You  give  me  some 
hope,  already. 

Mary. — Mother,  without  your  optimism,  I don’t  quite  see 
where  we  could  find  inspiration,  for  this  fight. 

Mrs.  Clayton. — (Rising)  I am  going  to  run  right  over  and 
talk  with  Fritz.  I believe  he’ll  listen  to  me. 


18 


Webster. — Thank  you,  so  much,  Mrs.  Clayton.  I tried  to 
talk  with  him  this  morning,  but  he  was  so  angry  he  would  not 
speak  to  me.  (Exit  Mrs.  Clayton.) 

Mary. — I am  surprised  that  any  of  them  would  stoop  to  so 
low  an  act.  It  is  cowardly. 

Webster. — I’m  afraid  I shall  have  to  draw  pretty  heavily 
upon  the  resources  of  my  friends  to  win  this  fight.  Since  consoli- 
dation carried  only  by  a small  majority,  we  can’t  afford  to  lose 
any  more  adherents.  If  no  definite  action  is  taken  by  our  oppon- 
ents, I feel  sure  that  we  shall  be  able  to  pull  ourselves  out  of  the 
mud  in  a few  weeks.  I have  never  yet  failed  to  win  the  co-opera- 
tion of  my  patrons.  I hope  I shall  not  fail  here. 

Mary. — Oh,  to  think,  you  and  your  teachers  cannot  even  work 
in  peace,  but  have  to  spend  your  energies  meeting  the  opposition 
of  those  who  ought  to  be  your  loyal  supporters! 

Webster. — I quite  expected  it.  Teaching  in  terms  of  country 
life  is  such  a departure  from  their  experience  they  cannot  believe 
that  it  is  good.  You  can’t  blame  them  too  much.  In  their 
minds  is  only  one  standard  of  a school.  That  is  an  institution 
where  text  books  are  learned  by  rote.  Any  departure  from  that 
standard  is  not  school  to  them,  no  matter  what  it  is  to  accom- 
plish. We  must  change  their  standards  by  showing  them  a dif- 
ferent sort  of  school  in  operation,  and  convince  them  that  it  will 
do  more  for  boys  and  girls  than  their  type  of  school,  and  at  the 
same  time  promote  the  socialization  of  country  life.  The  enthu- 
siasm of  those  young  people  who  are  beginning  to  get  the  first 
great  vision  of  their  lives, — that  is  to  be  the  leaven  to  leaven  the 
entire  community.  That  leaven  is  at  work.  Its  reaction  upon 
the  resisting  mass  is  producing  some  very  interesting  results. 

Mary. — Webster,  you  do  not  seem  to  consider  any  of  these 
scandals  as  personal  matters.  You  look  at  them  in  as  calm  and 
detached  a manner  as  a scientist  in  his  laboratory;  or  more  to  the 
point,  as  a skilled  physician  would  study  and  fight  a disease  in  a 
patient  who  was  cross  and  petulant. 

Webster. — That  is  just  what  ignorance  is — a disease  that 
preys  upon  the  minds  of  those  afflicted  by  it.  It  is  the  disease 
we  must  fight,  not  the  patient.  (Enter  Eric,  very  much  excited. 
He  is  dressed  in  overalls  and  blouse.  Mops  the  perspiration 
from  his  face  with  a red  bandanna.) 

Eric. — Mees  Mary! — Oh,  you  bane  here,  Mr.  Vort’?  I bane 
glad.  Ay  haf  sommting  to  say  to  you. 


19 


Webster. — (Speaking  as  to  an  equal,  with  no  air  of  patronage) 
What  can  I do  for  you,  Mr.  Svenson? 

Eric. — It  bane  about  a paper,  Yim  Talman  yust  now  tol’ 
me  about  it — a petition  to  kill  te  con-sol’ dated  school  after  dees 
year.  Mr.  Stephens  is  having  it  signed. 

Webster. — Do  you  know  how  many  have  signed  the  paper, 
Mr.  Svenson? 

Eric. — Yim  say  tey  bane  ten.  He  bane  tackin’  up  te  papers 
tey  signed.  Tham  people  bane  yust  like  ol’  Pete.  Ayfeex,  von 
time,  goot  bade  in  the  stable  for  heem,  sprankle  str-raw  down  so 
soft.  Ay  say,  “Pete,  you  haff  fine  sleepin’  place  this  time.”  He 
bane  stand  and  watch  me  like  he  know  all  about  te  yob.  He 
steeck  oop  his  ears  unt  poke  out  hees  nose  like  he  bane  say,  “Goot 
yob,  Eric,  good  yob.  ” Veil,  Ay  go  next  morning  to  harness  Pete, — 
te  door  vas  open  an’  no  Pete  vas  bane  there.  He  bane  not  slept 
on  hees  good  bade.  Ay  hunt  out  in  te  pasture  an’  out  on  a pile 
of  rocks  bane  ol’  Pete  yust  pecause  he  vant  be  stubborn.  Tern 
rocks  make  big  dimples  in  Pete’s  back  but  he  vas  happy  because 
he  bane  fool  me.  These  people  vas  yust  like  te  silly  mule. 

Mary. — (Laughing)  That’s  a pretty  good  comparison,  Eric. 

Webster. — (To  Mary)  That  means  that  we  have  only 
fifteen  days  to  win  our  victory.  As  the  situation  stands,  I think 
the  vote  would  easily  go  two-thirds  majority  against  us  now. 

Eric. — Mr.  Vort’,  Ay  bane  only  von  ignorant  Swedish  farm 
hant.  Ay  don’d  know  American  vays  yet,  but  Ay  bane  halp  you 
fight  eef  anythings  Ay  can  do.  Sally  goes  to  your  school.  She 
like  school.  Aylikeittoo.  Ven  Ay  save  enough  moneys  vor kin’ 
for  Mrs.  Clayton,  Ay  go  too.  Learn  how  to  farm  better. 

Mary. — Good  for  you,  Eric. 

Webster. — We’ll  certainly  appreciate  your  help,  Mr.  Svenson. 
This  is  a great  crisis  in  the  life  of  the  neighborhood.  The  man 
who  champions  our  cause  will  be  despised  for  a while,  but  if  we 
win,  unborn  generations  shall  rise  up  and  call  him  blessed.  Mr. 
Svenson,  you  may  count  on  being  used  if  you  are  game  for  the 
fight. 

Eric. — Ay  bane  game.  And — er— Mr.  Vort’ — Sally  vas  bane 
game,  too.  She  halp. 

Webster. — (Encouragingly)  Of  course  she  will.  All  my  stu- 
dents are  going  to  help.  It’s  their  fight. 

Eric.  Ven  you  vant  me  yust  call  te  telephone.  Ef  Ay 
can’t  do,  Ay  let  you  have  ol’  Yack  an’  my  buggy  any  time  you 


20 


need  him.  Maybe  Ay  bane  not  much  good.  Den  Yack  bane 
good  substitute.  He  bane  not  born  in  Sweden.  Goot-tay.  Ay 
goes  to  vork.  (Exit  Eric.) 

Mary. — What  are  your  plans  for  the  campaign? 

Webster. — You  are  the  general.  I march  by  your  orders. 

Mary. — This  is  a serious  time  to  jest. 

Webster. — I am  not  jesting,  Mary.  I recognize  your  ready 
wit, — your  powers  of  leadership.  Your  efforts  won  consolidation 
here,  and  they  must  hold  the  fort.  All  my  inspiration  has  come 
from  you.  What  do  you  say  we  should  do? 

Mary. — Fm  afraid  Fm  not  equal  to  so  great  a task.  If  I 
did  not  know  you  to  be  so  loyal  to  the  truth  Fd  suspect  you  of 
flattery.  I’ve  been  very  much  discouraged  about  my  work.  I’ve 
felt  that  all  my  dreams  were  failing.  Oh,  Webster,  all  my  heart 
is  in  the  work,  but  I’m  not  strong  enough  to  lead  in  the  fight. 
I’m  only  a woman. 

Webster. — (Moving  near  her)  Mary,  I’m  going  to  say  to 
you — what  has  been  on  my  heart  for  many  days.  You  have  been 
the  loadstar  of  my  faith.  I could  have  no  heart  to  work  under  this 
load  of  turmoil  and  scandal  but  for  you.  I have  never  done 
anything  yet  to  make  me  your  equal  in  any  way — 

Mary. — Webster,  you — don’t — 

Webster. — (Not  heeding  her  remonstrance.)  But  when  I have 
done  some  really  worthy  piece  of  work — I want  to  ask  you  if 
then  you  will  not  join  your  life  with  mine,  that  together  we  may 
consecrate  all  of  our  united  strength  to  the  great  task  of  re-direct- 
ing all  the  mighty  forces  of  the  soil.  Mary,  I love  you,  even  more 
than  I love  my  work.  I have  sometimes  hoped  that  you  returned 
my  love.  Will  you  direct  the  battle  for  me,  for  the  church,  for 
the  school — for  our  home  some  day? 

Mary.— No but  I will  plan  with  you  as  a soldier  of  equal 

rank. 

(He  catches  her  in  his  arms.) 

End  of  Scene  I. 


21 


ACT  II.  SCENE  II. 


Setting:  Living  room  in  the  Stephens  home.  Cheap  furni- 
ture, but  tastefully  arranged.  There  are,  however,  several  pieces 
of  theap  bric-a-brac  distributed  about.  Sally  is  standing  on  a 
chair  at  right  of  stage  hanging  a picture.  (Enter  Mrs.  Stephens.) 

Mrs.  Stephens. — (Looks  about.)  Why  whatever  have  you 
been  doin’  to  this  room,  Sally?  It  looks  so  different. 

Sally. — Does  it  look  better  or  worse? 

Mrs.  Stephens. — Well,  now  I don’t  know  but  what  it  looks  a 
sight  better.  Beats  all,  don’t  it,  how  changin’  furniture  around 
and  hangin’  pictures  low  down  makes  a difference?  I never  would 
’a’  thought  about  hangin’  pictures  away  down.  Where  did  you 
learn  it? 

Sally. — Our  art  teacher  showed  us  about  it.  She  took  a copy 
of  a landscape  painting  and  hung  it  high  up  'and  let  us  look  at  it. 
Then  she  hung  it  on  a level  with  our  eyes  when  we  were  standing. 
I saw  how  much  more  the  picture  meant  where  I could  really  see 
it.  I didn’t  ask  you  about  doing  this.  Maybe  you  won’t  like 
the  change.  I hated  to  speak  about  it,  you  know — it  would  look 
like  I was  trying  to — run  things.  Our  teacher  showed  us  a lot 
about  rugs,  they’re  better  than  carpets — and  she  said  lots  of  little 
trinkets  around  in  the  room  were  not  pretty  and  they  catch  dust. 

Mrs.  Stephens. — Why  I’m  glad  you  are  learnin’  these  little 
things.  I have  always  wanted  things  to  look  pretty,  but  when  I 
went  to  school  no  such  things  were  thought  worth  while.  Don’t 
you  be  afraid  of  hurtin’  my  feelin’s,  Sally,  about  anything  to  make 
our  home  prettier  and  more  comfortable.  You  can  do  anything 
you  want  to  to  put  in  practice  what  you  learn.  If  you’ll  help  me, 
we’ll  spend  a little  money  to  fix  things  up. 

Sally. — Oh,  Mrs.  Stephens!  You  are  just  the  dearest  woman 
in  all  the  world!  I’m  going  to  hug  you  for  that.  (Puts  her  arms 
around  Mrs.  Stephens.)  You’ve  always  been  just  like  a mother 
to  me.  I’ve  never  had  anybody  to  show  me  how  to  do  things  but 
you,  and  if  you  hadn’t  been  so  good  to  me  I wouldn’t  know  any- 
thing about  housekeeping.  I used  to  hate  cooking  and  dish- 
washing and  keeping  the  house  .straight;  but  since  nearly  every- 
thing we  do  at  school  makes  us  want  to  be  better  home-makers,  I 
just  love  it.  In  household  arts  we  learn  how  to  choose  foods,  their 
nutritive  ratios,  how  to  cook  and  serve,  how  to  choose  clothing 
and  keep  it  in  repair  and  lots  of  things.  And  our  teacher  said 


22 


she  was  going  to  borrow  Mrs.  Jones’  Billy  some  day  and  show  us 
how  to  dress  and  bathe  a baby.  I never  liked  to  study  the  old 
way,  but  now  I see  how  useful  everything  I learn  is,  and  I just 
love  to  do  it. 

Mrs.  Stephens. — (Patting  Sally’s  cheek)  You’re  a dear  good 
girl.  I’m  proud  of  you.  It’s  so  good  of  you  to  come  over  evenings 
an’  help  me.  I think  it’s  worth  more  to  know  how  to  keep  house 
well — to  cook  and  sew  and  have  pretty  things — to  be  happy  and 
love  your  work  than  to  know  a lot  of  just  book  learnin’.  But  you 
do  learn  other  things,  don’t  you,  dear? 

Sally. — Oh,  yes.  I study  algebra  and  literature  and  history 
and  domestic  science.  I just  love  it  all.  In  algebra  we’ve  been 
making  graphs  showing  the  relative  food  values  in  different  foods, 
the  increase  in  dairy  products  from  using  certain  feeds,  and  we’re 
planning  sets  of  problems  to  use  next  year  with  our  experiments 
in  seed  testing,  plant  production,  use  of  fertilizer  and  hundreds 
of  useful  things. 

Mrs.  Stephens. — You  don’t  say! 

Sally. — The  boys  have  card  ^indexes  of  all  the  live  stock,  the 
number  of  acres  of  corn,  wheat,  and  hay,  number  of  acres  of 
pasture,  the  value  of  each  farm  in  the  district.  The  girls  keep 
notes  on  home  experiments  in  cooking,  expense  accounts  of 
groceries  and  proceeds  of  sales  of  cream  and  eggs.  We  have  tested 
every  dairy  cow’s  milk  and  have  her  record.  We  could  tell  in 
five  minutes  every  cow  in  this  district  that  isn’t  paying  her  board. 
If  Mr.  Stephens  forgot  how  many  hogs  he  had  and  would  come  to 
any  pupil  in  the  agriculture  class,  he  could  find  the  number  for 
him  in  just  no  time.  He  could  tell  him  a lot  of  things,  too,  about 
how  a change  of  rations  would  make  him  more  money,  and  how 
he  could  improve  his  herd.  We  are  all  working  hard  on  a scheme 
for  a community  power  house  down  on  Sandy  Creek  to  furnish 
light,  and  to  do  all  the  laundering  of  the  district,  and  when  we  get 
it  all  figured  out  we’ll  make  some  people  sit  up  an’  take  notice. 

Mrs.  Stephens. — Oh,  just  think  how  fine  that  would  be  to 
have  electric  lights. 

Sally. — Yes  and  that  isn’t  all;  you  could  have  electric  fans  to 
keep  you  cool,  an  electric  iron  to  iron  your  fine  clothes  when  they 
came  back  clean  from  the  laundry,  an  electric  motor  to  run  the 
cream  separator,  wash  the  dishes,  pump  the  water,  grind  feed  for 
the  chickens,  grind  the  sausage — 


23 


Mrs.  Stephens. — Why  that  sounds  like  a fairy  story.  We’d 
all  get  too  lazy  to  live,  wouldn’t  we? 

Sally. — It’s  more  beautiful  than  a fairy  story,  and  it’s  every 
bit  true.  The  water  power’s  there — just  going  to  waste. 

Mrs.  Stephens. — And  to  think  they’re  trying  to  vote  the 
school  out.  I just  think  it’s  mean.  Us  women  have  got  to  do 
something.  If  we  could  vote,  we’d  fix  it,  but  we  can’t  do  that. 
I’ll  tell  you,  Sally,  if  we  could  a lot  of  us  meet  with  your  teachers 
we  could  plan  some  things. 

Sally. — They  say  we  don’t  learn  anything  from  books.  We 
don’t  just  memorize  a lot  of  old  dry  stuff,  but  we’ll  put  ourselves 
up  against  any  high  school  pupils  in  the  same  grades  anywhere  in 
the  state.  We  learn  all  the  other  things  besides.  The  difference 
is,  we  connect  what  we  learn  with  something  real,  useful.  They 
just  learn  because  they  have  to  have  «o  many  credits.  Our  school 
is  a farmers’  school,  Mr.  Worth  says;  it  isn’t  a lawyers’  or  doctors’ 
or  merchants’  school.  Why  don’t  they  give  us  and  our  teachers  a 
chance  to  show  them  what  we  are  doing  and  can  do? 

Mrs.  Stephens. — Don’t  you  mind  Sally.  We’re  goin’  to  work 
mighty  hard  for  your  school.  I’m  beginnin’  to  see  some  things 
for  this  neighborhood  I never  seen  before.  (Enter  Mr.  Stephens. 
Sits  in  a rocker,  down  stage.  Exit  Sally.) 

Mr.  Stephens. — (Reading)  Choice  hogs  over  250  lbs.,  9.60  to 
9.70,  200  to  250,  9.50  to  9.70.  Rough  to  common,  8.40  to  9.25. 
I gar,  that  little  bunch  o’  hogs  goin’  to  fetch  me  a right  neat  little 
passel  o’  money.  9.60  to  9.70,  it  says.  My  hawgs  is  in  prime  shape. 
Bet  they’d  top  the  market.  Cost  me  a lot  to  feed  ’em.  Guess 
it’s  a right  good  time  to  turn  ’em  loose.  Goin’  to  be  a slump  in 
the  market  some  o’  these  days. 

Mrs.  Stephens. — Well,  Hiram,  you’re  made  the  hogs  an’ 
cattle  about  as  comfortable  as  you  can.  Reckon  you’ll  spend  a 
few  dollars  of  that  money  to  fix  up  the  house  a bit,  won’t  you? 
(Enter  Emmett.) 

Emmett. — Well,  most  worthy  Father,  I am  glad  to  be  able  to 
report  to  you  that  the  thorn  that’s  been  in  your  flesh  so  long’s 
goin’  to  be  extracted  right  away.  I’ve  polled  the  district,  an’ 
more’n  three-fourths  uf  ’em  is  goin’  to  vote  agin’  the  little  agri- 
culturist an’  bug-ologist.  Yes,  sir,  goin’  to  put  the  school  decidedly 
on  the  bum.  Oh,  I had  to  use  a good  deal  of  argument  on  a few, 
but  they  come  across. 


24 


Mr.  Stephens. — I gar,  I knowed  they  ’uz  some  way  to  git 
rid  o’  the  thing  somehow.  It’s  cost  us  a sight  o’  money,  but 
we’ve  learned  a lesson.  This  year,  an’  then  we’re  shet  o’  tom- 
foolery. 

Emmett. — An’  what  does  the  little  mother  think  of  her  duti- 
ful son’s  skill,  eh,  in  conductin’  a campaign?  No  doubt  a little 
pained  that  the  brilliant  young  professor,  the  ladies’  man,  is 
going  to  have  to  move  his  boardin’  place  next  year? 

Mrs.  Stephens. — I don’t  want  to  talk  with  you,  Emmett. 
You  cannot  insult  me  because  you  aint  capable  of  it,  but  I don’t 
care  to  discuss  the  matter  with  you.  Webster  Worth  deserves 
to  be  given  a chance.  He’s  been  treated  like  a dog,  but  it  won’t 
hurt  him.  It’s  themselves  the  tax  payers  is  a-hurtin’. 

Mr.  Stephens — Nancy,  I gar,  aint  ye  never  goin’  to  talk 
sensible?  W’y  you  know  the  way  we’re  all  payin’  sich  high  taxes 
an’  gittin’  nothin’  but  bug-huntin’  an’  sich  like,  they  aint  nothin’ 
to  it.  I gar,  I’m  mighty  glad  to  hear  were  goin’  to  git  quit  uv  him. 
Sooner  the  better  fer  me. 

Emmett. — Oh,  he  knows  all  about  bugs,  all  right, — knows  jist 
where  they  live  an’  what  they  think  an’  how  they — spark.  Knows 
more  about  them  bugs  than  they  know  themselves.  And  he’s 
an  expert  on  hog-cholera  and  corn-raisin’.  It’s  a whole  lot  easier 
to  do  these  things  than  to  learn  kids  their  books. 

Sally.— (Angrily)  Mr.  Emmett,  we  have  higher  aims  than 
converting  our  heads  into  book  satchels.  Mr.  Worth’s  aim  is,  as 
he  says  many  times,  to  “ prepare  us  for  complete  living  by  living 
completely  here  and  now.  ” I guess  you  folks  will  stop  our  school, 
but  we’ve  made  up  our  minds  when  you  do  every  high  school 
student  leaves  this  community  to  stay.  (Exit  Sally.) 

Emmett. — (Fanning  himself)  Oh!  listen  to  our  little  doll! 
DonT  she  talk  purty?  The  foundling — the  charity  girl  can  quit 
flirtin’  with  the  hired  man  long  enough  to  lecture  to  poor  ignorant 
farmers  on  education.  She’s  a plum  good  ’un,  aint  she? 

Mr.  Stephens. — Jist  see  there,  now.  He’s  been  a-puttin’ 
children  up  to  run  away  from  home.  It’s  about  time  somethin’ 
was  done.  I gar,  Emmett,  (Slapping  Emmett’s  shoulder)  Ye’ve 
done  a good  piece  of  work  today.  Mebby  all  our  farms  won’t 
have  to  sell  for  taxes  ef  we  git  shet  o’  this  here  costly  nonsense. 
(There  is  a rap  at  door.  Mrs.  Stephens  answers.  Enter  Mary 
Clayton.) 


25 


Mary.  Good  morning,  folks.  Is  Sally  over  here  this  morn- 
ing, Mrs.  Stephens?  I want  to  see  her  a moment  about  the 
Campfire  girls’  trip. 

Mrs.  Stephens. — Yes,  she’s  helpin’  me  today.  She’s  got  her 
hands  in  the  dough  now.  She’ll  be  in  in  a minute. 

Emmett. — And  how  is  our  friend,  the  professor,  these  days, 
Mary?  Still  conducting  the  little  game  of — er — school  I pre- 
sume? 

Mary. — (Coldly)  Mr.  Worth  is  doing  very  well,  so  far  as  I 
know. 

Emmett. — What!  You  mean  you  do  not  know  about  him? 
And  has  he  not  been  over  in  the  last  hour  or  so?  Then  he  must 
be  very  ill.  Doubtless  he  is  grieving  over  the  election  next  Tues- 
day week.  It  is  too  bad  his  nice  little  soft  snap  will  stop — that 
his  pet  goose,  so  to  speak,  will  quit  layin’  the  golden  egg. 

Mr.  Stephens. — I gar,  the  people  what  lives  in  this  here  town- 
ship is  a-goin’  to  take  charge  of  their  own  affairs  onct  more. 

Mary. — Pardon  me,  but  I think  we’d  better  not  discuss  that 
subject.  It  is  one  upon  which  we  cannot  agree. 

Emmett. — Oh,  very  well,  dear  May-ry,  I’ve  discussed  it 
pretty  thoroly  with  the  tax  payers  of  this  township  today,  and  I 
find  that  they  agree  pretty  much  with  my  conclusions.  There  is  a 
subject  a little  nearer  my  heart  even  than  that.  (Coming  closer) 
If  I tell  you  you  look  very  pretty  today  will  you  find  that  subject 
a bit  more  er — congenial?  (Cowers  under  her  withering  glance.) 

Mr.  Stephens. — Well,  I’ve  got  to  go  an’  see  how  Jim’s  gittin’ 
along  fixin’  up  that  hawg  rack.  (Exit  Mr.  Stephens.) 

Mrs.  Stephens.— Don’t  run  off  yet,  Mary.  I’ve  got  to  get 
my  bread  in  the  oven,  then  I want  to  talk  with  you  a minute. 
(Exit  Mrs.  Stephens.) 

Emmett. — Mary,  you  look  worried  and  tired,  my  dear. 
(Attempting  to  put  his  arm  around  her)  I think  you  need  some- 
body to  take  care  of  you.  Marry  me  and  you  won’t  have  a thing 
to  do.  Old  man’s  got  plenty.  I can  dress  you  like  a queen  an’ 
get  you  anything  you  want.  Don’t  you  see  we  ought  to — er — 
belong  to  one  another?  (Suddenly  catching  her  in  his  arms.) 

Mary. — (Freeing  herself)  Sir!  What  right  have  you?  Be 
careful  what  you  do.  You  are  a brute.  You  know  very  well  I 
would  die  sooner  than  think  for  one  moment  of  being  bound  to 
you.  Leave  me ! 


26 


Emmett.: — (Insolently  gripping  her  wrist,  his  teeth  clenched) 
Oh,  I don’t  know  about  that!  There’s  a few  things  you  ought 

to  know  and  by bless  me — if  you  don’t  hear  ’em,  too!  You’re 

not  so  fine  as  you  think  you  are.  You  can  go  around  with  that 
little  cur  pup  of  a school  teacher  whose  character  everybody 
knows  is  bad  and  turn  up  your  aristocratic  nose  at  a plain  hard 
working  farmer.  I’m  as  good  as  that  little  devil  and  I say  (hiss- 
ing) you  will  have  me!  If  you  don’t  promise  I’ll  turn  some 
things  loose  I know  that’ll  everlastingly  fix  your  little  dude! 

Mary. — You  hurt  Webster  Worth’s  reputation!  He’s  as 
much  above  you  as  heaven  is  above  earth.  I don’t  fear. 

Emmett. — Oh,  I didn’t  hurt  him  any,  did  I?  Oh,  no.  What 
are  people  sayin’  about  him  now? 

Mary. — You  are  a vile,  contemptible  coward.  Release  me! 
(Enter  Webster  Worth.) 

Webster. — What  does  this  mean?  (Emmett  releases  Mary’s 
wrist  and  glares  at  Webster.) 

Emmett. — Oh,  you  don’t  need  to  think  you’ve  got  any 
monoply  on  this  love-makin’  business.  If  I want  to  spoon  a little 
with  Mary  Clayton  aint  I got  as  good  a right  as  you?  So  long 
as  she’s  willin’,  any  how.  • 

Webster. — You  contemptible  cur!  You  shall  not  insult  Miss 
Clayton  in  my  presence.  (Preparing  to  strike  him.) 

Emmett. — You’d  better  remember  whose  house  you’re  in. 
I’ll  have  you  arrested  for  assault  and  if  you  want  to  tell  what  I 
was  doin’  when  you  came,  all  right!  I just  want  you  to.  Now, 
(To  Mary)  You  fine  little  aristocrat,  when  the  scandal  gets  out 
you  won’t  hold  your  proud  head  quite  so  high,  eh?  I know  a nice 
little  story  about  you  two.  You  dare  blab  on  me  an’  I’ll  prove  it 
on  you.  I’ve  got  witnesses. 

Webster.  It’s  false. 

Emmett. — Oh,  it  is,  is  it?  Well  what  do  I care  if  it  is?  I 
can  prove  it  anyhow.  It’s  just  as  good.  Look  at  this!  (Holding 
up  official  looking  document  and  pointing  to  seal.)  Maybe  you 
think  the  seal  of  a notary  public  don’t  count  fer  nothin’  with  the 
court.  Here,  read  it.  It’s  nearly  as  purty  as  them  little  stories 
you  spend  all  your  time  learnin’  the  kids  to  write.  (Webster 
reads.) 

Webster. — I never  dreamed  that  anybody  could  be  so  black 
of  soul!  (Mary  seizes  paper  and  reads.  Paper  drops  from  her 
nerveless  fingers.  Emmett  picks  it  up  triumphantly  and  replaces 


27 


it  in  his  pocket.  Pats  his  pocket  with  his  hand.  Mary  attempts 
to  speak.  Staggers  and  falls  into  Webster’s  arms.) 

Emmett. — Oh,  I guess  you’ll  tame  down  a bit  won’t  you? 
(To  Mary.)  You  can  have  till  tomorrow  to  promise  to  marry 
me.  If  you  don’t — well,  you  can  take  the  consequences.  (Enter 
Mr.  Stephens,  Mrs.  Stephens,  Sally  and  Jim.) 

Webster. — Your  story  is  utterly  false,  by  your  own  confession. 
You  cannot  intimidate  me.  I shall  disregard  you.  (Webster 
turns  and  starts  away.) 

Emmett. — But  yer  goose  is  cooked,  dern  ye. 

End  of  Act  II. 


ACT  III.  SCENE  I. 

Setting : Living  room  in  the  Stephens  home.  There  is  much 
better  taste  shown  in  furnishings  than  in  previous  scene.  The 
gilt-framed  family  portraits  and  cheap  ornaments  are  gone,  the 
rug  does  not  scream  at  the  paper.  A few  magazines  are  on  the 
table,  tastefully  arranged  flowers  in  vase.  Sally,  neatly  dressed, 
is  seated  on  sofa  reading  a magazine.  Enter,  Eric.  He  is  well 
dressed  and  carries  himself  with  dignity.  Appears  much  more 
at  ease  than  in  first  scene  with  Sally. 

Sally. — I am  waiting  for  you. 

Eric. — (Pleased)  Yas  Ay  bane  late?  (Both  are  seated  on 
sofa.) 

Eric. — How  pratty  dis  room  look.  Yust  like  Miss  Mary  fix 

’em. 

Sally. — Do  you  think  it’s  nicer  than  it  used  to  be,  Eric? 

Eric. — Ay  guess.  Ay  nefer  notice  eet  at  all  before. 

Sally. — Guess  who  fixed  it  up,  Eric. 

Eric. — Let  me  see — Mrs.  Stephens?  (Sally  shakes  her  head.) 
Mr.  Stephens? 

Sally. — (Laughing)  Oh,  you  goose!  Imagine  Mr.  Stephens 
fixing  up  a room.  It  would  be  fixed.  Guess  again. 

Eric. — Vas  it  Yim?  (Chuckles.) 

Sally. — Oh,  of  all  things!  I’ll  tell  Jim  the  joke.  Won’t  he 
laugh? 

Eric. — Veil,  then,  must  bane  you.  You’re  here  a good  deal. 

Sally. — Yes,  I did  it — that  is,  of  course,  Mrs.  Stephens  helped 
me,  but  she  let  me  make  the  plans. 


28 


Eric. — Ay  like  it  still  better,  then.  (Moving  closer  to  Sally.) 

Sally.— Thank  you,  Eric. 

Eric. — You  bane  learnin’  lots,  Sally. 

Sally. — (In  a sad  tone)  I just  knew  it  was  too  good  to  be  true. 
Just  when  we  youngsters  were  all  getting  interested  in  some  worth- 
while things  and  having  the  greatest  time  we  ever  had  in  our  lives, 
they  have  to  go  and  vote  our  school  out.  It  makes  me  mad.  They 
can  spend  money  enough  on  their  hogs  and  cattle,  but  they  don’t 
want  to  keep  a good  place  to  educate  their  young  people,  now  that 
they  have  one. 

Eric. — (Patting  her  hand  clumsily)  There  now,  little  girlie, 
don’t  you  mind.  It  bane  not  voted  out  yet.  Maybe  something 
happens  yet.  Meester  Vort’  sait  if  they  didn’t  lose  he  was  goin’ 
to  start  night  school  for  everybody  that  bane  wantin’  to  learn 
somethin’.  If  it  go,  Ay  vill  go.  Ay  learn  how  to  spoke  Anglish 
batter  an’  gat  batter  education.  Ay  want  some  day  to  be  a good 
f aimer — own  a big  farm  an’  know  how  to  take  care  of  it. 

Sally. — That  would  be  fine.  I wish  Mr.  Worth  could  get  to 
start  his  night  school.  There  are  lots  of  hired  hands  and  boys 
who  don’t  go  to  school  who  spend  their  time  loafing  of  evenings 
at  the  store  and  smoking  cigarettes.  If  he  could  get  them  to 
come  to  night  school  they  could  have  more  fun  and  learn  a lot,  too. 

Eric. — Sally,  you  bane  get  sad  whan  you  talk  apout  te  school. 
I tall  you  one  fonny  story. 

Sally. — Oh,  Eric!  You  always  make  me  laugh  myself  sick 
with  your  funny  yarns! 

Eric. — Ay  bane  stackin’  hay  last  sommer  and  tern  nephews 
of  Meester  Marston’s  bane  rakin’.  Tey  come  from  Sheecago. 
Tey  nefer  haf  see  te  coontry  pefore.  Tey  bane  run  into  a bumble- 
fly’s  nest.  Beeg  swarms  of  bumbleflies — 

Sally. — (Laughing)  You  mean  bumblebees,  don’t  you  Eric? 

Eric. — Oh,  yas  bumblebee.  Te  bumble-bees  swarmout — 
two  barrel  of  tern.  Tern  poys  bane  covered  with  te  bumblebees. 
Here  tey  come — te  horses  runnin’  and  te  poys  slappin’  at  bumble- 
flies  right  at  te  stack.  Ay  bane  hearin’  tern  flies  roar  pefore  te 
boys  got  in  sight.  Ay  roll  off  te  stack  ant  Yim  turn  hees  fork 
loose  to  climb  on  te  stack.  Meester  Yones  vas  bane  crawlin’ 
unter  te  stack  ven  te  oltest  poy  yell,  “Oh  tese  leetle  yaller  pugs! 
Tey  pite!  Tey  bane  vill  eat  me  oop.  Vat  Ay  bane  toin’?” 
Yim  bane  on  te  stack.  He  see  better  as  te  men  unter  te  stack. 
Yim  say,  “Take ’em  back  to  te  nest  quick.  Yimminy  it  bane 


29 


fonny  vay  tem  poys  runs  to  te  nest  yellin’  like  tey  vas  gat  vages 
for  it,  “Oh,  tem  leetle  yallow  pugs!  How  tey  bite!”  Veil, 
maybe  ve  gat  after  tem  voters  so  hard  tey  go  back  to  te  nest. 
(Aside)  Unt  ve  gat  after  Emmett  unt  his  notary  seal,  too.  Yim 
yust  put  me  next  to  dat;  ve  make  him  tink  bumbles!  (Sally 
laughs  a clear,  ringing  laugh.  The  merriment  is  broken  up  by  the 
entrance  of  Mr.  Stephens.) 

Mr.  Stephens  — W’y,  hullo,  Eric.  How  you  a-stackin’  up? 

Eric. — Pooty  good,  Mr.  Stephens.  (Stephens  sits  in  rocker 
down  stage.  Reads  paper.  Eric  and  Sally  look  at  one  another. 
Get  up  and  go  quietly  out.  Mr.  Stephens  chuckles.  Enter  Mrs. 
Stephens. ) 

Mrs.  Stephens. — When  you  goin’  to  ship  your  hogs,  Hi? 

Mr.  Stephens. — Vant  to  ship  tomorrer.  I’ll  call  up  an’  order 
two  cars  this  evenin’.  I gar,  hawgs  is  a mighty  good  investment. 
(Enter  Jim.) 

Jim — Say,  Mr.  Stephens,  they’s  five  o’  the  biggest  o’  them 
hogs  ’at  wont  eat  nothin’,  jist  lay  an’  sleep.  I got  over  in  the  pen 
an’  poked  ’em  up,  but  by  heck,  ’twant  no  use.  They  wouldn’t  eat 
a bite.  Tear  t’  be  a-feelin’  kinda  puny;  d’ye  reckon  I’d  better 
give  ’em  some  liniment?  01’  man  Marston’s  hawgs  is  all  a, 
dyin’  o’  cholera.  They 

Mr.  Stephens. — I gar,  I’m  ruined,  I tell  ye  ef  them  hawgs  has 
got  cholera  I’m  ruined.  I’ve  lost  $5000.  Oh,  Lord!  What  am 
I ever  to  do? 

Sally.— (Coming  and  standing  in  the  door  with  Eric)  Mr. 
Stephens,  Mrs.  Clayton’s  hogs  had  cholera  last  fall  and  Mr.  Worth 
and  the  boys  in  his  farm  animals  class  vaccinated  them.  She 
lost  only  five. 

Mr.  Stephens.  Here  you  are  a-talkin’  about  that  new-fangled 
agricultoor  learnin’  again.  I don’t  feel  like  listenin’  to  it  now. 

Jim. — That’s  right  though,  Mr.  Stephens,  ’bout  Mis’  Clayton’s 
hawgs.  They  uz  jist  a-turnin’  their  toes  up  an’  a-dyin.’  Beat 
all  I ever  see’d.  They  squirted  a little  stuff  in  their  laigs — the 
hawgs  what  wusn’t  orf  their  feed  yet,  an’  I cracky,  they  got  awful 
sick,  ’nen  they  got  well  again.  Course  you’re  the  booss.  It 
aint  becomin’  o’  me  to  tell  you  what  to  do,  but  I’d  hate  to  see 
ye  lose  them  hawgs.  I’d  purt  nigh’s  soon  lose  my  bird  dawg.  It 
wont  cost  nothin’  much  to  try  it.  Le’s  get  the  perfessor  an’  the 
boys  to  come  an’  see  ’em. 


30 


Mr.  Stephens. — I gar,  Fd  ruther  lose  the  hawgs  than  to  ast 
him  ef  I knowed  he  c’d  kyore  ’em.  I know  they  aint  nothin’  to 
this  here  vaccinatin’  doin’s. 

Mrs.  Stephens.— But  Hi,  you’re  a fair-minded  man — 

Mr.  Stephens. — Who  says  I aint  fair-minded?  Who  dares 
accuse  me  on  it? 

Mrs.  Stephens. — Why  no  one  would,  I say,  Hi.  Seen’s  how 
you  are  fair-minded  I j ust  thought  you’d  give  Mr. Worth  a chance 
to  try  his  experiments  if  he’d  ask  you  to. 

Mr.  Stephens. — He  aint  a-goin’  to  ast  me.  Not  after  what  I 
said  to  him.  He  won’t  care  ef  I lose  all  my  hawgs. 

Sally. — Right  thee’s  where  you’re  mistaken,  Mr.  Stephens. 
Mr.  Worth  was  saying  to  the  class  the  other  day  that  you  had  the 
finest  herd  of  fat  hogs  in  the  district.  He  said  you  were  an  expert 
with  hogs. 

Mr.  Stephens. — He’s  got  a little  more  sense  than  I thought  he 
had.  Ef  he  wants  to  fool  with  the  hawgs  I don’t  know  as  I care. 
They  are  all  goin’  to  die,  anyhow.  He’d  jist  as  well  waste  his 
time  that  away  as  any  other. 

Sally. — (Aside)  Just  wait  till  ’I  get  to  a ’phone  where  he 
can’t  hear  me.  If  things  don’t  come  our  way!  (Exit  Sally.) 

Mr.  Stephens. — I aint  got  much  heart  to  see  them  sick  hogs, 
Nancy,  but  I reckon  I’ll  have  to  go.  (Exit  Mr.  Stephens.) 

Mrs.  Stephens. — Jim,  don’t  you  say  anything,  but  I’m  glad 
those  hogs  got  the  cholera.  If  I’m  not  mistaken  it  means  our 
school  will  be  saved. 

Jim. — Mr.  Worth  is  a powerful  smart  man.  He’s  been  a- 
tellin’  me  a lot  o’  things  about  farmin’  I never  knowed.  I sneaked 
some  ground  lime  onto  about  an  acre  of  corn  down  on  the  back 
forty  where  Mr.  Worth  said  it  needed  it  an’  the  corn’s  twice  as  big. 
I’m  goin’  to  tell  the  boss  what  done  it  pretty  soon. 

Mr.  Stephens. — (Off  stage)  Oh  Jim!  What  on  earth  are 
you  a-doin’?  Bring  a kittle  o’  hot  water  an’  come  help  vaccinate 
these  hawgs!  (Enter  Sally.) 

Jim. — (Catching  Eric  and  dancing  across  floor.)  Glory, 
hallelujah! 


End  of  Scene  I. 


31 


ACT  III.  SCENE  II. 


Setting : The  stage  is  set  to  represent  auditorium  of  Hope 
High  School.  A miniature  stage  is  seen  on  the  stage,  and  seats 
for  an  audience.  Curtains  are  down  and  people  come  in  occasion- 
ally to  the  “ audience.  ” Hiram  Stephens,  Mrs.  Stephens,  Mrs. 
Clayton,  Mr.  Schwartz,  other  members  of  the  school  board  are 
waiting  for  the  “ curtain”  to  rise. 

Mr.  Schwartz. — How  your  hogs  vas,  Mr.  Schdephens? 

Mr.  Stephens. — Fat  as  they  ever  were  an’  hearty  as  you  please. 
I gar,  that  vaccination  saved  my  bacon.  I didn’t  believe  in  it, 
but  it  shore  works.  I only  lost  three. 

Mr.  Schwartz. — Ach  himmel,  eet  safed  mein  hogs  too,  unt 
my  Hans  dit  all  der  waccinatin’.  He  vas  goot  hant.  I change 
te  feed  schust  like  as  Hans  figure  heem  unt  my  hogs  get  fatter 
right  avay  queeck,  unt  it  cost  me  not  so  much.  Hans  dhake  me 
ofer  to  der  school  unt  show  me  leetle  cards  all  alphabetical  in  a 
drawer,  unt  on  tern  carts,  so  help  me  gracious,  tey  haff  feegured 
up  efery  cow  dat  vas  a poarder  in  te  deestrict.  He  say  three  off 
mein  cows  vas  poartin’  on  me.  I pelief  not  he  knows.  I dhries, 
unt  fint  them  cows  vas  schust  like  as  he  say.  Tey  geef  not  enoof 
cream  to  pay  deir  poart.  I get  dem  fat.  Tey  poard  somebody 
you  bet.  I dell  you,  Meester  Schdephens,  tern  poys  learn  things 
to  tern  good. 

Mr.  Stephens. — I gar,  but  it  does  look  funny  to  be  a teamin’ 
them  things  at  school,  an’  doin’  this  here.  I don’t  know,  tho, 
after  Worth  saved  my  hawgs  I fit  pesky  hard  to  save  his  school  an’ 
we  saved  her  too.  I said,  s’l,  “Boys,  give  him  another  chanct. 
Maybe  they’s  jist  a little  in  it  after  all,  what  he’s  a-doin”.  I 
alius  wuz  a fair-minded  man.  Nobody  ever  really  believed  them 
yarns  about  him  an’  Mary  Clayton,  anyhow. 

Mr.  Schwartz. — I been  talkin’  mit  der  teacher  unt  he  geef 
me  some  idees.  Ef  we  puy  all  togedder  ve  puy  our  groceries 
cheaper.  Unt  eef  ve  sell  all  togedder  ve  get  mor-re  moneys.  Ve 
need  no  meedleman.  Te  poys  ant  girls  can  feegure  at  school 
on  differ-rent  concerns.  Tey  learn  real  business  by  toin’  it  unt 
safe  us  money. 

Mr.  Stephens. — I never  thought  of  it  that  way  but  mebby 
they  could.  Jim  sneaked  some  ground  lime  on  a acre  of  corn  on 
my  back  forty  last  summer,  an’  I’m  blessed  if  it  didn’t  fetch  a 
hundred  bushel  to  the  acre  when  the  rest  only  brung  only  sixty. 
I was  goin’  to  lime  the  hull  derned  farm,  but  Worth  said  jist  part 


32 


of  it  needed  lime.  Said  they’d  test  the  soil  an’  see  what  it  needed. 
I gar,  if  they  can  learn  kids  that,  I dunno,  looks  mighty  quare 
don’t  it?— but  mebby  it’s  jist  because  we  aint  used  to  it.  I gar, 
my  hired  man’s  started  to  night  school  an’  he  can’t  talk  o’  nothin’ 
else.  He’s  more  interested  in  that  ’ere  farm  than  I am.  Says 
he’s  a learnin’  to  farm. 

Mr.  Schwartz. — My  girls  can  cook  so  as  vas  nefer.  Tey 
learn  to  sew  unt  mend  unt  safe  dhings.  I ped  you  ve  haff  got 
eine  goot  school,  Schdephens. 

Mr.  Stephens. — But  it  does  look  quare  not  to  do  it  the  old 
way.  (Small  curtain  on  stage  rises  showing  “ stage”  decorated 
with  corn.  “ Audience”  cheer,  including  Messrs,  Stephens  and 
Schwartz.) 

Webster. — (Coming  to  the  edge  of  platform.)  Ladies  and 
gentlemen:  We  are  gratified  by  the  interest  you  have  shown  in 
this  performance.  Now  we  are  coming  to  the  last  and  most 
ambitious  number,  perhaps  a word  of  explanation  will  not  be 
amiss.  This  pageant  represents  the  celebration  of  the  staple 
products  of  the  great  Middle  West.  It  has  been  arranged  and 
staged  by  home  talent.  Since  corn  is  the  legacy  of  the  Ameri- 
can Indian  we  will  present,  first  of  all,  the  Indian  legend  of  the 
gift  of  corn,  or  the  Mondamin.  The  lines  used  in  this  episode 
as  you  will  notice,  are  adapted  from  “Hiawatha,”  There  was 
always  a ritual  dance  in  connection  with  planting  the  corn.  This 
was  the  embodiment  of  the  legend  of  Minnehaha  blessing  the 
corn  fields,  which  comprises  the  second  episode.  In  the  third 
episode  we  will  present  the  gift  of  the  corn  by  the  Indians  to  the 
Pilgrims,  thus  typifying  the  beginning  of  the  use  of  corn  by 
the  white  race.  The  fourth  episode  will  typify  corn  products. 
This  scene  will  close  with  a symbolical  tableau  showing  Mondamin 
directing  to  her  coming  greatness  the  Spirit  of  the  New  World. 

Episode  I.  Mondamin. 

(Curtain  on  miniature  stage  rises  showing  a background  of 
forest.  Enter  Hiawatha  walking  very  feebly,  weak  from  fasting. 
Falls  prone  upon  the  ground.  Sleeps.  Music  played  very  softly 
as  if  in  the  distance.  (Enter  from  opposite  side  of  stage,  Monda- 
min. He  is  a young  man  with  long,  flowing  yellow  hair.  A wreath 
of  corn  tassels  is  worn  on  the  head  and  from  his  shoulders  falls  a 
mantle  of  bright  green  under  which  is  a tunic  of  yellow.  The 
Mondamin  advances  slowly  toward  Hiawatha,  dances  around 
him.  Touches  him  with  his  staff,  which  is  made  from  a cornstalk. 
Hiawatha  rises  feebly  to  a sitting  posture.) 


33 


Mondamin. — Oh  my  Hiawatha! 

All  your  prayers  are  heard  in  heaven, 

For  you  pray  not  as  the  others; 

Not  for  greater  skill  in  hunting, 

Nor  for  greater  craft  in  fishing, 

Not  for  triumph  in  the  battle, 

Nor  renown  among  the  warriors, 

But  for  profit  of  the  people, 

For  advantage  of  the  Nations. 

From  the  Master  of  Life  descending, 

I,  the  friend  of  Man,  Mondamin, 

Come  to  warn  you  and  instruct  you, 

How  by  struggle  and  by  labor 

You  shall  gain  what  you  have  prayed  for. 

Rise  up  from  your  bed  of  branches, 

Rise,  O youth,  and  wrestle  with  me. 

(Hiawatha  feebly  rises  and  they  wrestle.  At  the  touch  of  the 
Mondamin  all  of  Hiawatha’s  strength  returns  and  the  struggle 
grows  intense.  Slowly  the  light  fades  away  leaving  the  stage  in 
twilight.  Off  stage  is  heard  the  cry  of  the  heron.  Mondamin 
pauses  to  listen.) 

Mondamin. — List!  The  heron,  Hiawatha. 

Bravely  have  you  wrestled  with  me 
And  the  Master  of  Life,  who  sees  us, 

He  will  give  to  you  the  triumph. 

(Smiling)  Tomorrow  is  the  last  day  of  your  fasting. 
You  will  conquer  and  o’ercome  me; 

Make  a bed  for  me  to  lie  in, 

Where  the  rain  may  fall  upon  me, 

Where  the  sun  may  come  and  warm  me; 

Strip  the  garments  green  and  yellow, 

Strip  this  nodding  plummage  from  me, 

Lay  me  in  the  earth  and  make  it 
Soft  and  loose,  and  light  above  me. 

Let  no  hand  disturb  my  slumber, 

Let  no  weed  or  worn  molest  me. 

Let  not  Khangagee,  the  Raven, 

Come  and  haunt  me  and  molest  me, 

Till  I wake,  and  start,  and  quicken, 

Till  I leap  into  the  sunshine. 

(Exeunt  Mondamin  and  Hiawatha.) 


34 


Episode  II.  Blessing  the  Corn  Fields. 

Scene,  a cornfield,  showing  tiny  shoots  of  corn.  Enter 
Minnehaha,  dancing  in  fantastic  movements  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  a drum,  drawing  a circle  about  the  corn  field.  This  scene 
should  be  in  very  subdued  light  to  represent  twilight.  Minne- 
haha should  be  draped  in  white  and  her  hair  should  fall  loosely 
over  her  shoulders.  (See  music  and  dance  steps  in  Appendix.) 

Episode  III.  The  Gift  of  Corn  to  the  Paleface. 

Enter  several  Pilgrims.  From  opposite  side  of  stage,  Samo- 
set  and  two  other  Indians  advance  carrying  baskets  of  corn,  which 
they  place  at  the  feet  of  the  Pilgrims.  Pilgrims  mingle  with  the 
Indians,  distribute  trinkets  to  them.  Indians  depart.  Pilgrims 
kneel  in  attitude  of  prayer.  Curtain  of  the  miniature  stage  drops. 

Episode  IV.  The  Uses  of  Corn. 

Curtain  rises  showing  a group  of  children  dressed- to  represent 
certain  corn  products,  or  merely  carrying  pasteboard  forms,  repre- 
senting meal,  hominy,  various  breakfast  foods,  etc.  One  may 
carry  a fat  hog  cut  from  pastboard.  They  march  around  in  a 
circle.  A child  or,  preferably  an  older  person  standing  in  the 
center  may  recite  Whittier’s  “Corn  Song.  ” Curtain  of  miniature 
stage  falls. 

Tableau. 

Curtain  rises  showing  tableau  of  the  Mondamin  and  the  Spirit 
of  the  New  World.  Indians,  Pilgrims  and  children  grouped 
in  the  background.  The  Mondamin  stands  in  the  center  of  stage. 
Spirit  of  the  New  World  slowly  advances  to  meet  him.  Mon- 
damin takes  her  by  the  hand  and  leads  her  across  stage.  Pulling 
aside  a curtain  he  reveals  a poster  with  an  appropriate  scene  and 
the  words  in  large  letters,  CORN  IS  KING.  Mondamin  and 
Spirit  of  New  World  dance  several  measures.  Curtain.  As 
curtain  drops  “audience ” starts  to  leave.  Hiram  Stephens  rushes 
front  and  speaks  to  Webster. 

Webster. — (Rapping  on  table  for  attention)  May  we  have 
your  attention  a moment.  Mr.  Stephens,  president  of  the  school 
board,  wishes  to  speak  a few  words  to  you. 

Mr.  Stephens. — (Going  front  and  putting  hands  in  pockets.) 
Neighbors  an’  friends,  I aint  no  good  at  speech-makin’ — never 
made  one  in  my  life,  but  I jist  want  to  tell  Mr.  Worth  here,  an’ 
you  boys  an’  girls,  that  that  ’ere  show  wuz  the  best  thing  I ever 


35 


seen.  I uster  would’  a’  thought  it  wusn’t  no  good  but  I jist  feel 
tonight  like  anything  that  makes  people  forget  their  worries  an’ 
enjoy  anything  so  much  is  worth  while.  They  aint  anybody 
here  ’ats  had  a better  time  than  I have.  They  aint  nobody  here 
’ats  got  more  good  already  outen  this  here  school  than  I have. 
I’m  fer  it  neighbors,  an’  I’m  fer  this  here  kind  o’  entertainment. 
I’d  jist  like  to  see  another  one  yit  tonight.  (Applause.)  I reckon 
I aint  a-usin’  very  good  grammar,  but  I’m  doin’  the  best  I know 
how.  You  can  use  all  my  farm  ye  want  fer  an  experiment  station, 
fer  ye’ve  already  saved  $5000  worth  uv  hawgs  fer  me,  an’  I low  now 
to  git  all  the  good  out  of  the  new  way  I can.  I’ve  fit  this  thing 
hard,  but  I couldn’t  git  it  straight  into  my  noggin’.  Now  I’ve 
got  it  straight,  an’  I’m  on  the  right  side.  They  aint  nobody  in 
this  deestrict  that’s  worked  any  harder  than  Miss  Mary  Clayton 
fer  these  new  things.  She’s  still  a-workin’.  She  wants  us  to  have 
a church  that  can  do  things  like  this  school’s  a doin’  ’em.  Neigh- 
bors, I’m  fer  that,  too.  When  I ship  them  hawgs  ’at  Mr.  Worth 
an’  the  boys  saved  fer  me,  I’m  a-goin’  to  turn  over  half  the  money 
fer  a fund  to  start  that  new  church.  Mebby  I oughtn’t  to  say  it, 
but  I’ve  got  some  more  to  spend  to  make  the  ol’  home  cosy  if 
Mr.  Worth  an’  the  boys’ll  furnish  me  plans.  (Cheers.) 

Mr.  Schwartz. — (Popping  up)  I geef  half  my  hawgs  to  te 
church  too.  I haf  got  two  carload.  (Cheers.  Mr.  Stephens  is 
seated.) 

Webster. — Friends,  I feel  like  shouting  tonight.  We  are 
going  to  work  for  you  harder  than  ever  before,  and  we  hope  to  see 
you  here  very  often.  This  isn’t  the  last  play  you  will  see.  We 
will  have  them  often,  for  we  believe  it  is  a universal  mode  of  self- 
expression,  and  that  self-expression  is  the  joy  of  existence.  Thanks 
many,  many  times  for  yoUr  loyal  support  tonight.  Good  night. 
Part  of  “audience”  leave.  Webster,  Mary,  Mrs.  Clayton,  Sally 
Mrs.  Stephens,  Mrs.  Schwartz  and  Mr.  Stephens  are  grouped  on 
the  “stage.” 

Mrs.  Stephens. — Oh,  it  was  wonderful  just  to  think  our  own 
young  people  can  do  such  things. 

Mr.  Stephens. — I gar,  I’m  a-goin’  to  go  to  that  ’ere  night 
school  myself.  I thought  I was  too  old  to  learn,  but  I learned  more 
tonight  than  I ever  knowed  before. 

Mr.  Schwartz. — Ya,  ve  all  aind  too  old  to  learn  somethings. 
Ye  all  go. 


36 


Mr.  Stephens. — Fm  interested  in  that  power  house  an’  co- 
operative laundry  an*  creamery  project.  Have  ye’  bout  got  it 
figgered  out? 

Webster. — We’ll  have  it  solid  next  week.  We  can  do  it 
three  thousand  dollars  cheaper  than  I thought  we  could. 

Mr.  Stephens. — Well,  I’m  fer  that,  too,  an’  I’ll  help  ye  put 
her  thru.  (Enter  Jim  and  Eric  one  on  either  side  of  Emmett, 
dragging  him  along.) 

Jim. — Askin’  yer  pardon  fer  our  little  enterruption  ladies,  an’ 
gents,  this  gentleman’s  got  a little  speech  to  make.  Now  you 
say  her! 

Eric.  (Shaking  his  fist)  Ya,  Meester  Emmett,  you  say’  er. 
Else  you  feel  dis  once  more. 

Emmett. — (In  shaky  voice.)  I lied — that — affidavit — was — 
false.  Mary  Clayton — an’ — Webster  Worth  is  both  all  right. 
(They  turn  him  lose.) 

Emmett. — It’s  another  climate  fer  me.  This  smells  like 
brimstone.  (Exit  Emmett.) 

Mr.  Stephens. — Yes,  I gar,  an’  you’ll  roast  over  some,  Em,  if 
you  don’t  mend  your  ways.  (Eric  has  his  arm  around  Sally 
Webster  with  Mary.) 

Mrs.  Clayton. — I want  you  to  know  the  manager  of  my  farm, 
Mr.  Svenson  and  his  bride-to-be,  Miss  Sally  Peterson. 

Mr.  Stephens. — An’  I want  ye  to  know  the  manager  of  my 
farm,  Mr.  James  Talmon,  the  man  what  let  Svenson  shell  his 
corn  for  him. 

Jim. — (Bowing  with  mock  gravity)  Ladies  an’  gents,  any 
time  you  want  to  see  the  best  bird  dawg  in  Missouri  come  around  to 
my  office  an’  I’ll  introduce  you  to  him.  I’ve  done  had  him  vac- 
cinated agin’  hyper-fogy. 

Mr.  Schwartz. — Schim’,  pring  te  dog  ofer  unt  shell  corn  for 
me.  Maype  my  Katrina  vill  help  you. 

Eric. — It  bane  your  opportunity  Yim.  Luck  to  you.  Don’t 
bane  like  a shoat  of  Mrs.  Clayton’s.  He  vas  in  hillside  corn  field 
last  fall.  At  te  foot  of  te  hill  one  tay  I bane  out  vorkin’  an’  here 
comes  a punkin  rollin’  along  by  itself.  Ay  gat  te  punkin,  put 
him  in  te  wagon.  Patty  soon  here  come  saoat.  He  vas  bane 
looking  for  punkin.  He  yust  yump  along  an’  look' all  round. 


37 


Ven  he  bane  not  find  te  punkinhe  go  away  squealin’  like  donder! 
Yim,  don’t  lose  te  punkin.  (Yell  heard  off  stage.) 

We  will  move  the  whole  creation 
For  we  keep  Consolidation, 

What’s  the  matter  with  Worth? 

He’s  all  right! 

Who’s  all  right? 

Worth! 

Rickaty,  rackaty,  sis  boom  ba! 

Worth,  Worth, 

Rah,  rah,  rah!  ! 

Webster. — Our  boys  and  girls! 

Mary. — Bless  them.  This  is  too  good  to  be  true.  Every- 
body is  filled  with  the  vision  of  the  homeland. 

End  of  Act  III. 


DANCE  OF  THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  CORN 

Costume— A long,  flowing  white  robe.  White  shoes  and  stockings. 
Hair  loose  and  flowing. 

Properties — 3 ears  of  corn.  Place  one  ear  at  the  extreme  L front  of  stage, 
one  at  extreme  R front  of  stage,  and  one  in  the  center  immediately  in  front 
of  the  first  row  of  corn. 

12  stalks  of  corn  arranged  as  follows: 

X X X X 

X X X X 

X X X X 

cs  ear  of  corn 

ear  of  corn  cs  cd  ear  of  corn. 

Introduction — -(a)  Enter  from  L with  short  running  steps,  rt.  hand  held 
high  and  1.  held  back.  Run  to  center  back  of  stage  then  front  between  center 
rows  of  corn — - — ■ 2 meas.  (b)  Raise  both  hands  high  (palms  front),  face  front 
R corner  of  stage  and  rise  on  toes,  head  held  high  and  looking  up. 

Repeat  (b)  only  face  L corner  of  stage — 2 meas.  Total  4 meas. 

X.  Inspecting  corn-field.  Hop  on  1.  ft.,  raise  rt.  ft.  and  step  on  rt.  ft. — 
count  (1);  chain  step,  counts  (&2);  hold  position,  count  (&). 

Repeat  same,  only  beginning  with  r.  ft.  Allow  arms  to  wave  in  lines  fol- 
lowing the  motions  of  the  feet — 1 meas. 

Continue  this  step,  moving  around  corn-field  in  the  following  figure,  and 
end  at  the  extreme  L.  corner  of  stage — total  4 meas. 

X X X X 

x— >x— ^xj,  X 

X^  X Xvj,  X 

<=>  \ 

cd  cd  ear  of  corn 


38 


II.  Prayer  to  Manitou,  the  mighty,  (a)  Step  1.  ft.  across  rt.  Stoop  and 
pick  up  ear  of  corn — 1 meas.  Rise  slowly  until  standing  on  toes  and  hold 
corn  high  in  both  hands,  as  if  offering  it  to-  Manitou — 1 meas.  (b)  Whirl  to 
extreme  R,  arms  extended  sideward — 1 meas.  Repeat  prayer  crossing  rt.  ft. 
over  1.  but  whirl  to  center  of  stage  directly  in  front  of  first  row  of  corn.  Total 
6 meas. 

III.  Planting  the  corn.  Step  1.  ft.  across  rt.,  stoop  and  pick  up  ear  of 
corn— 1 meas.  Rise  slowly  and  hold  ear  of  corn  straight  out  in  front  of  the 
body,  about  as  high  as  the  head— 1 meas.  Begin  slowly  to  walk  backward 
down  the  center  row  of  corn,  stepping  very  emphatically  with  each  step. 
Shell  a few  grains  of  corn  and  throw  them  around  corn-field — 1 meas.  Turn 
with  back  to  front  of  stage  and  continue  walking  and  throwing  corn — 3 meas. 
Total  6 meas. 

IV.  Blessing  the  corn  and  exit.  With  the  same  step  used  in  “Insepcting 
the  corn-field,  ” go  as  in  the  following  figure  to  the  second  corn-stalk  from 
R stopping  directly  behind  the  corn-stalk — 2 meas.  Raise  arms  (palms 
front)  up  to  Manitou. — 1 meas.  Bend  over  corn-stalk  to  rt.,  arms  waving 
above  it  as  if  blessing — 1 meas.  Bend  to  1.  and  repeat — 1 meas.  Total  5 meas. 
Move  to  corn-stalk  second  from  the  1.  raise  arms  to  Manitou  and  proceed  as 
above  the  other  corn-stalk — 3 meas. 

x^x<-x  X 


Exit — With  short  running  steps  run  rapidly  back  thru  the  corn-field  and 
exit  at  L back  where  entrance  was  made — 2 meas  Total  5 meas. 

— Veld  a Cochran. 


39 


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